F Sharp
by cumberpatchcats
Summary: When world-class violinist Sherlock Holmes is a guest soloist at the London Symphony Orchestra, second clarinetist John Watson can't resist giving him a home for the duration of his stay. Or perhaps a bit longer. (Music!AU)
1. Chapter 1

John Watson could be considered a man of many talents. At his young age, he had already accomplished more than many will in their entire lifetimes. He had earned his medical degree, seen the battlefield, and now played music for a living. The London Symphony Orchestra had welcomed him with open arms upon hearing for the first time the incredible sound John could emit from his clarinet and within two short years, he had been promoted to second chair. It was a sedentary lifestyle, predictable and often mundane, but John didn't mind so much. After his chaotic trip to war, mundane was very good.

John woke up in the morning, had a hearty breakfast, read the news, and walked to the conservatory every weekday. Rehearsal lasted for three hours, to which he was then granted a two hour long lunch break before continuing on with his instrumental playing, during which he had a nice filling sandwich and a walk around the block where he could revel in the sunny warm air and fresh scent of home. On the weekends, he went out with friends, sometimes to a bar, and sometimes he would return home with a pretty young lady. Often these females would not last more than the weekend-storming out yelling "you care more about that damn clarinet than you do about me!"

But John didn't mind too much. He liked his life. It was normal. Steady. Stress-free. Bound to let him live up to a ripe old age.

Upon preparation of the Orchestra's annual summer performance, conductor Greg Lestrade announced that a prized violinist had returned home after his grand world tour and had graciously agreed to be the soloist for their upcoming recital. All around him, musicians began to chatter amongst themselves in excited frenzies. John, perplexed by the situation, turned to Sally Donovan, the first clarinetist and asked "what's got everyone in a rally? We've had soloists before."

Sally rolled her eyes as if she were annoyed by the entire scenario. "Oh, but this one's special."

"Special?" John asked, raising his eyebrows in curiosity.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sally sighed, obviously exasperated. "Supposedly the greatest violinist of our time, but I think he's more of a twit, really."

John nodded slowly. "Sherlock Holmes." The name seemed to roll right off his tongue as if it was meant to be said. You'd have to be a hermit not to know who Sherlock Holmes was. A child prodigy, graduated from the American school Julliard, who claimed to be able to play any piece by ear-blindfolded. John didn't know too much about the man, he had only seen him on television once or twice and didn't think too much of his instrumental skills. He had seen Sherlock mostly on the news being arrested for drug abuse. Violin prodigy turns to heroin. Musical genius arrested for suspected drug usage. Young violinist found unconscious in home, rushed to hospital-drugs to blame? The most recent headline had occurred just before Sherlock left on his world tour. Sherlock Holmes to give performances around the world after year long rehab. John figured his fame was mainly attributed to his pretty face and lively drug history, but if the mention of his presence excited the whole orchestra, perhaps he really was as good as everyone claimed.

"Okay quiet down, everyone," Lestrade commanded upon his conductor's podium. "We've still got practice. Remember, Sherlock only plays with the orchestras he believes are the best. If we show him we suck, he'll walk out the door faster than he came in."

This mention surprised John and he turned back to Sally. "He can do that?"

"Oh sure," Sally answered. "He's infamous for turning down highly respected companies because he doesn't think they play well enough. And it doesn't ruin his reputation because he's such a fantastic violinist."

"What an arse!" John exclaimed. Sally only nodded in agreement.

John went home that night with his clarinet in his hand and his mind busied with Holmes. The name was no epiphany, of course. Another Holmes-Mycroft, owned the orchestra, as well as probably most of London. He was the main contributor to the orchestra and the reason everyone got paid so generously. From what John had heard, Mycroft was a politician-the entire British government, people say-and infamous for manipulating anybody into getting what he wants. John doubts he follows the rules half the time, but hey, nobody will arrest you if you're rich enough.

As a child, John often fantasized of being rich, as most children do. He came from a middle class family where money was tight but stable, and he lived a very comfortable life. Of course he yearned for luxuries, as children often do, but he was always understanding if he couldn't get a certain videogame for Christmas. He could just imagine how the Holmes children must have grown up. They probably had nannies and butlers and a whole bunch of friends to play with in their massive oversized rooms. Still, perhaps they had to be careful about running around the house with their parents' expensive vases and various ornaments strewn about. Sherlock probably got any videogame he asked for.

So as John drifted off to sleep in the comforts of his own little bed, he nuzzled his face into the soft linen covers of his sheet and thought to himself that it must be rather nice to be rich.

* * *

Of course John was excited the next morning. It's not every day you get to meet a violinist that could play Mendelssohn at the age of six, after all. He was nervous as well, naturally, for Lestrade's warning lingered in his ears. If Sherlock did not like what he heard, he would not bother himself to stay, and more than anything, John wanted to perform with him-if just to be able to tell his grandchildren that one time he had performed with the great Sherlock Holmes.

He got to the conservatory earlier than usual, perhaps to get a glimpse of the violinist, but alas Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

In fact, nearly an hour and a half into rehearsal, he had still not shown up and John was beginning to worry. More than anything, though, he had begun to worry that nobody else seemed to be worrying. Lestrade seemed extremely focused on his conducting and the musicians seemed extremely focused on their playing, and John couldn't help but wonder why they weren't as worried as him.

While Lestrade took a five minute break to catch a breath and grab a bottle of water, John leaned over and asked Sally, "is he coming today?"

"Who?" Sally asked, puzzled.

"Sherlock Holmes!" John exclaimed, surprised that she had forgotten.

"Oh!" Sally nodded. And then her face twisted to something unpleasant. "Him. Oh, he'll show up when he feels like it."

Just then, as if right on cue, the auditorium doors burst open and all eyes were on the entrance as a tall thin figure emerged into the room.

Chatter began amongst the orchestra yet again, but John's eyes were silently transfixed on the elegant creature that strided towards the lot of them.

Lestrade sputtered a bit as he rushed to greet the figure. "Sherlock!" He gave a short laugh. "Welcome home!"

"Yes," Sherlock responded, and John was quite shocked to find how deep of a voice the young violinist had. He and Lestrade shook firm hands as he said "I apologize on being tardy. I was working on an experiment and I must have lost track of time."

"An experiment?" John asked, mostly to Sally.

Sally turned to face John and said "oh, didn't I mention? He's also a chemist. Isn't that charming? Is there anything that man can't do?" Her sarcasm was blatantly obvious, but John could see her point. He let out a whistle. A scientist and a musician. Strange combination indeed, but an outstanding one nonetheless.

Lestrade clapped his hands and rubbed his palms together. "Well, let's waste no time then, Sherlock! Are you prepared for Tchaikovsky?"

"That one's dull," Sherlock responded blatantly. "I was hoping to start with the Mendelssohn."

John was shocked. The nerve of that man! It was a common rule in the music world that the conductor is god and that all should obey him no matter what the circumstances. Usually, backtalking the conductor earned you a one way ticket out of a job and into the streets. However, John witnessed as Lestrade simply nodded and muttered out "Oh…o-okay then, yes, indeed. We'll start with the Mendelssohn then."

As Sherlock tuned his instrument, John took the chance to look over him just a bit. There was no doubt Sherlock was a handsome fellow, tall and slim and well-proportioned. He had high cheekbones and a mess of curly dark hair and a well-defined upper lip and his eyes were…what color? Blue? Green? Both? Neither?

His body was sharp and angular, his hands long and bony as they gripped his instrument. Quite honestly, he looked so elegant and fragile John was almost afraid he'd break in half right in the middle of rehearsal.

Even as Lestrade raised his arms and began conducting, John couldn't take his eyes off the captivating presence of Sherlock Holmes.

And when Sherlock began to play, John could swear he was an angel of music descended from the heavens to show the world what music should sound like. His fingers moved nimble and quick across the strings and the bow glided across the instrument with such elegance and ease. John could hardly concentrate on his own music with Sherlock standing there looking like his violin just belonged right there on his shoulder.

Never before had John been blessed to witness such an angelic presence right there in front of him. Never before had he been able to listen to such majesty live and in person. He had listened to Sherlock play only once or twice before, but he had never been able to just sit down an enjoy it. And of course, he only sounded so much better in person.

When the piece was over, Sherlock slowly let his arms down, his violin dangling at his side. He glanced over his shoulder and scanned the orchestra, and for just a split second, his eyes locked onto John and John could feel a chill rush down his spine.

And then Sherlock raised a bony index finger at the pit and pointed straight at an individual. All eyes were suddenly on the trumpet section. "You there," Sherlock's deep booming voice called. "What's your name?"

The trumpet player in question sputtered a bit before answering "Anderson, sir."

"Anderson," Sherlock repeated, with perhaps just a tiny of a sneer. "I never want to hear you play that loud and that awful ever again. You drown out the entire orchestra and I can hardly hear my own instrument. Or at least if you must play that loud, play the right notes. No wonder your wife's gone and left you-she probably couldn't take any more of your horrible playing."

Anderson's mouth gaped wide open and he stuttered a bit before instantly shutting up and shrinking down into his seat. Around him musicians struggled not to laugh. John was more interested in how in the world Sherlock had deciphered Anderson's recent divorce.

Beside John, Sally began to fume silently. Her hatred towards Sherlock was quite evident, and John had to wonder what her motive was for disliking him so much. True, he was arrogant, but then again most soloists are.

At the end of the day, Sherlock left the scene rather quickly. John was perhaps a bit disappointed, as he had wanted to congratulate the violinist on a job well done, but he figured he'd have another opportunity in the near future. Tomorrow, perhaps.

As they were packing up, John acknowledged Sherlock's talents to Sally. "He's quite good though, isn't he?"

"He's just a freak," Sally answered. "And no more good than any other soloist out there. He's only famous because he stands out, and he only stands out because he's a freak of nature and he likes to challenge authority. If I had my way around here, I'd kick him out in a heartbeat."

John pressed his lips together tightly, but left the conversation alone.

And so he packed up his things and set off for home.

About halfway home, he was just in the middle of mentally planning out his supper when he had an aching feeling he was missing something. Something rather important, in fact. Indeed when he set his clarinet case down in the middle of the sidewalk and opened it, he was startled to find that his reeds were missing. He vaguely recalled taking his reed box out during the lunch break to change out an old one, but he couldn't remember ever putting the box back in his case. Those reeds were important and extremely not cheap, and it would be terrible if he had lost them, so he set his mind on turning around and heading to the conservatory to search for them.

Being a military man, John could run without losing much energy so it was no burden returning to the auditorium. It was good for his health anyways, as he feared he wasn't getting enough exercise nowadays with his musical profession.

He let himself in through the backstage door and headed to the orchestra pit.

There he found himself startled by a presence on stage. He gasped and froze in place as his eyes laid sight on a certain violin player sitting in the middle of an empty strings section, legs propped up on the chair in front of him and fingers picking lazily at his violin strings, playing random notes and nothing comprehensible.

Sherlock Holmes.

Their eyes meet and John was face to face with astound beauty. And then Sherlock reached beside himself and took a small black box into his hands. John's reeds. "looking for this?"

John stuttered a bit. "Uh, yes, actually. I was. Thank you."

He took a step forward but froze again when Sherlock began to speak. "You know, you can learn a lot about a clarinet player from his reeds. How far down the reed is in your throat, how hard your teeth imprint into it, its quality and age, etcetera. For instance," with an elegant hand he opened up John's box and pulled out a single reed. "I can tell you used this one on a Monday, a day after having a bit too much to drink. Do you do that often? Are you an alcoholic?"

"N-no!" John hesitantly defended himself.

"Of course you aren't," Sherlock agreed. "Your hands are far too steady for that. You are, however, a soldier. Am I right?"

John's jaw dropped wide. "How did you know?"

"Just look at yourself," Sherlock explained. "Your haircut, your posture, the calluses on your hands that don't match playing the clarinet. You'd have to be an idiot not to notice. Ah, but you were injured or else you wouldn't be here playing with this dull orchestra."

"I'm not…it's not…" John scoffed. "Dull?"

"Were you shot?"

"The orchestra isn't dull!" John right near shouted, ignoring Sherlock's question completely. "And what are you doing here anyways? Shouldn't you be home?"

"I haven't got one," Sherlock responded.

John was taken aback. "So what, you're just going to sleep here in the conservatory?"

"Not quite sleep, no."

"Nobody made you housing arrangements?"

"Of course they did. My brother prepared a room for me at our childhood estate."

"So go," John said, quite puzzled by Sherlock's stubbornness.

Sherlock sneered as if the thought of sleeping at his brother's house was the most repulsive idea in the world. "I'm not sure if you've been keeping up with the rumors, but my brother and I aren't exactly on speaking terms."

"Well…" John started. "You can't stay here. I'm pretty sure it's illegal."

"And you have a better suggestion?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

John pressed his lips tightly together as he thought hard.

"That's what I thought," Sherlock nodded.

"No," John shouted abruptly. "No, you could stay with someone. Lestrade."

"Lestrade is married to a woman with whom I have never gotten along with."

"Me, then."

Silence filled the entire auditorium.

And then Sherlock spoke. "You?"

John doesn't have time to regret what he had said because he finds his body involuntarily nodding. "Me. It…it's not as large as you're used to, I suspect, but it's homely, and I don't have any kids or bothersome pets."

Sherlock let his lips curl into a little smirk. "You don't know what you're asking of."

"Of course I do," John defended himself.

"I'm a horrid roommate," Sherlock told him. "I play the violin at odd hours and I perform dangerous experiments wherever they suit me."

"You're also homeless," John pointed out. "So I don't understand why you're so determined to be difficult about this."

Sherlock nodded slowly, finally giving up. "All right then. I'll room with you." He outstretched his arm, John's reed box in hand. As John walked over to collect it, he finally asked John his name.

"Watson," was his response. "John Watson. And I_ was_ injured. Shot."

"In the left shoulder."

"How did you know that?" John asked, bewildered.

"I'll tell you on the way home."


	2. Chapter 2

Early in the morning, while John was comfortably sound asleep in his nice warm bed, there came a rapid tapping upon his front door. Still excruciatingly tired, John tried to ignore it, thinking the knocking would go away, but after a solid two minutes, it just got louder and more furious. So he heaved a sigh and swung his legs to the ground, standing up groggy and half-asleep.

When he flicked on the lights of the living room, he was startled to see Sherlock sitting at his kitchen table in nothing but one of John's bathrobes, stirring some strange concoction in one of John's pots. John could only hope and pray it wasn't poisonous, whatever it was.

"When did you wake up?" John asked, yawning.

"I didn't sleep," was Sherlock's response.

"Oh."

More knocking.

John groaned in exasperation. "You couldn't be bothered to get the door?" He walked over to the door.

"Oh don't worry, I know exactly who it is."

John paused with his hand around the doorknob. "Well then who is it?"

"Nobody of importance."

John groaned again and swung the door open. Upon laying eyes on his visitor, he had to clasp his hands over his mouth to keep from screaming. There, standing in his doorway, was the elder Holmes himself, tall and proud with his balding hair and slick black suit. John took a quick glance at the clock. Three am. Who wears a suit at three am?

"Mr. Holmes," John gasped. "Is everything all right?"

"I have reason to suspect my idiot brother is residing here," Mycroft stated, pushing through John's doorway and pointing a slick black umbrella into the room. "Ah, and there he is!"

"How did you find him?" John asked, honestly curious and perhaps a bit frightened for his privacy.

"You see, when he was a boy, I cleverly installed a micro tracking system under the skin of his neck," Mycroft explained.

At this, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's the most ridiculous lie I've heard leave your lips yet." Then to John he said "Mycroft has access to all the street cameras. He watches all of them with a sick and perverse intent."

At this, Mycroft frowned. "I'll have you know I can't be bothered with medial tasks like street-watching. My employees do that for me and report back. While I'm here, though, I'd like to insist you return home. Mummy does miss you so."

Sherlock let out a rather rude laugh. "I'll do no such thing. John here has offered me a pleasant stay here at his flat."

"I can see that," Mycroft said. "And it is a very nice flat, but nonetheless not suitable for a man of your caliber-no offense to Dr. Watson. At least find shelter under a suitable hotel."

John threw up his hands to indicate just how unoffended he was.

"Mycroft," Sherlock started, finally turning to face his brother. "Did you come for any reason other than to piss me off?"

To which Mycroft smiled a somewhat cold and sinister smile and replied "Not at all."

"Then, dear brother, kindly see yourself out and, if you might, please fuck yourself. We have rehearsal in a few hours."

John gasped. Never before had he ever heard anyone speak to the elder Holmes like that. Mycroft was a well-respected individual as well as a highly-feared politician. To sass him meant the end of your career, for sure, and yet here Sherlock was, an arrogant young musician, insulting his older brother like John had never seen.

Perhaps the most puzzling part is that Mycroft obeyed. He gave his most sarcastically polite nod of acknowledgement before turning sharply on his heels and walking out the door in a dignified manner, slamming it behind him.

For a long moment, John just stood there in shock and awe staring at the closed door of his flat and wondering what had happened to his nice calm sedentary life. Within the past twenty four hours, he has inhabited a world class violinist, met the biggest name in British government since the queen, and seen both of them brawl it out right before John's eyes. Indeed this was one for the history books.

When John turned to glance at Sherlock, the violinist had already turned his focus back on whatever he was concocting in John's pot. What a strange one indeed.

Perhaps the biggest advantage-or perhaps the biggest disadvantage-to living with John Watson is that John had a strictly no-funny-business attitude. Obviously he liked to have fun and indulge a little bit, but when it came to work and arriving on time, he took to his soldier habits. Because of this, Sherlock found himself being dragged out of the flat in the middle of pouring yeast into a bowl of eggs and salt-a so called experiment since John didn't have proper chemicals laying about.

"John, I have to record the results," Sherlock whined, reaching for the overflowing bowl.

Instead, John placed Sherlock's violin in his outstretched hand. "No, you have to rehearse. Now hurry up or we'll be late."

So Sherlock compelled.

The look on Lestrade's face when Sherlock waltzed into the auditorium before the trombone players was absolutely priceless. In fact, the look on the few early bird musicians' faces were all just as priceless.

"Sherlock," Lestrade laughed, reaching out to shake hands. Sherlock complied. While their hands were still joined, Lestrade explained to him "your brother called last night," to which Sherlock let out a disappointed sigh. "He acknowledged that you wouldn't be staying at your family home and asked if I would rent a room at the nearest hotel. You did get my text, didn't you?"

"Oh I got it," Sherlock nodded.

"You decided not to take the offer, then?"

"No," Sherlock said. "John Watson here has offered me a room at his flat that I'm quite content with."

"Ah," Lestrade responded, taking a glance over Sherlock's shoulder to where John was standing there a bit awkwardly. "Yes, Mr. Watson. Excellent clarinetist, one of the finest this orchestra has to offer."

Sherlock craned his neck around to stare sharply at the ex-soldier. His lips curled into a mischievous little smirk as he said "we'll see about that, won't we?"


	3. Chapter 3

Two weeks into rehearsing with the great Sherlock Holmes, John still hadn't been able to get used to how majestic the violinist was. Just the way he held his bow delicately between his fingers and danced upon the thin strings was enough to make John swoon. Sherlock was an indifferent character, John had soon figured out, who cared for very little other than his science and his music, but in these two interests he became more focused than John had ever seen a man in his life. However easily distracted he might be when engaged in other activities, he was the most concentrated with a violin under his chin.

That being said, John was still not apt to the idea of Sherlock's playing schedule at home. Several times John had found himself waking up at odd hours in the night to the sound of music circulating the whole of the flat. Often, while being woken so early was not John's idea of a pleasant morning, the music was pleasing and John could forgive his new flatmate. Sometimes, however, Sherlock would screech on his violin, playing ungodly notes in incomprehensible tunes that would certainly make John's ears bleed if they could be amplified. It was times like these that John wondered if Sherlock truly was a prodigy. And then all doubts would fly out the window during rehearsal when Sherlock once again became an angel of the instrument.

Sherlock, as was predictable, had very little concept of personal space and privacy. Within a few days he had become comfortable of sleeping nude and parading around the flat in nothing but a bathrobe or worse. At first John didn't mind and disregarded the behavior as a common quirk of being a genius. They were both men, after all. However, once Sherlock started to barge into the restroom to brush his teeth while John was taking a piss, John had started to complain.

"I don't understand what the big deal is," Sherlock had told him, honestly bewildered. "We're both men, after all."

And because John couldn't argue another point other than that it wasn't decent, he shut up about it.

Sex also seemed to pose a minor problem. With Sherlock home, John didn't feel comfortable bringing girls home. And sometimes, John liked to indulged himself in a short morning wank. He had tried his hardest to be discreet about it, taking care of business in the shower, but just when he had finished and emerged from the tub to get a cup of coffee, Sherlock had asked him if he had a pleasant time. John had wanted to run to his bedroom and hide under his bed covers for the rest of his life.

A week after sharing a flat, Sherlock had his belongings brought in. John was pleased to find that Sherlock had very little in terms of closet space, probably thanks to his previous world tour. He did, however, place his chemicals on John's desk, kitchen counter, bookshelves, and every which way. He did not have many possessions, but what little he did have he was not very tidy about them.

Overall, taking in Sherlock seemed to be a big mistake on John's part. Although, he had to admit life was never boring.

One Saturday night, John informed Sherlock he was going out for a drink with friends.

"How many?"

"None of your damn business."

Sherlock nodded slowly, as if intrigued. "Orchestra friends, am I right? The flutist and the cellist you spend your lunch breaks with."

"If you're jealous, just remember that I offered you to eat with us and you refused."

Sherlock laughed as if John were the funniest person in the world. "And waste my time with trivialities like dining with your dull-minded companions?"

"Hey," John snapped, getting a bit defensive. "Mike and Sarah are intelligent human beings, thank you very much!"

"If you say so," Sherlock smirked.

"Honestly," John huffed, slipping on his shoes in a frustrated manner. "You are the most arrogant bastard I've ever had the misfortune of meeting."

"And yet my music enchants you."

"You shut up."

And with that, John slammed the door shut and left Sherlock alone in the flat for the night.

* * *

Around two am, while Sherlock was in the middle of investigating Lestrade's rapidly graying hair-compliments of Sherlock taking samples off the unknowing conductor, the phone rang. At first Sherlock ignored it as he couldn't be bothered with annoyances in the middle of his investigation. When the ringing only continued and it seemed like it could not be silenced, Sherlock rolled his eyes and left his scene in favor of the phone.

"Hello? Doctor Watson isn't here at the moment."

And just as he was about to hang up, the voice on the other end caught his attention. "Hello? Yes, is this John's flatmate?"

Sherlock put the phone up to his ear, suddenly interested in the conversation. "It is."

"Ah, mister Holmes, this is Mike Stanton-"

"The cellist," Sherlock interrupted.

"Yes, yes I am a cellist."

"Not a good one, I'm afraid."

"Excuse me?"

"Did you want something?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject rather quickly.

Mike cleared his throat. "Yes, well, we're on the bar around the corner and John's had a bit much to drink. We were wondering if you'd come retrieve him. We'd bring him home but-" he laughed a bit. "we're a bit tipsy ourselves."

"Send him home in a cab," Sherlock suddenly snarled. "I can't be bothered right now."

"At two am? Mister Holmes, please, even you must realize how unreasonable that is."

"Is it my fault that John exceeded his alcoholic limit?" Sherlock snapped. "Why should I be held responsible for his mistakes?"

There was a pause for a moment before Mike spoke again. "Well…I just thought that, since you were friends-."

"You mistake our relationship," Sherlock interrupted again rather sharply. "I am merely inhabiting his flat. We are not friends. I don't have friends, nor do I care for making any-especially with the likes of John Watson. Send him home any way you can-or don't, I couldn't possibly care any less. Good night, cellist."

He was just about to slam the phone when another voice, one different from Mike Stanton and much more obviously drunk, took over the other line.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are the most insufferable arsehole in the universe and I want you and your things out of my flat before I come home."

And with that, the line went dead.


	4. Chapter 4

John came home early Sunday morning to an empty flat. He spent the rest of the day in bed with the most glorious hangover and didn't once think of that confounded Sherlock Holmes.

Ah, peace once again.

John took the time to revel in waking up on Monday to a quiet flat. He basked in taking his time getting ready and sighed in relief as he took a nice hot shower in the privacy of his own restroom. In fact, to celebrate, John reached down between his legs and took his prick in hand. Just a short wank before rehearsal after nearly three weeks of being unable to relive any sort of sexual frustration. As a doctor, John knew the health benefits of masturbation, and so never discouraged himself from the act, and indeed it was calming. In fact, John could acknowledge that as the best orgasm he'd had in a long, long while.

John walked to the conservatory by himself that morning, the sun high and bright and the air light and freshly scented. He even hummed a little.

Upon entering the auditorium, Lestrade sharply turned around with a grand smile on his face, obviously intent on greeting Sherlock Holmes. His face fell though, upon realizing the prodigy was not at John's side as per usual.

John cleared his throat as he passed Lestrade to go to his seat, attempting not to make it seem like anything was a big deal.

"You and Holmes had a falling out?" Lestrade called out.

John froze in tracks and spun around on his heels to face his conductor. "A bit, yeah."

Lestrade gave a short chuckle and a sympathetic smile. "Understandable. I'm surprised you lasted with him thus long. Last time he was home I offered him a stay with me and I kicked him out before the night was over."

John smiled back, images of Lestrade throwing Sherlock off into the streets clouding his mind. To an outsider, it was probably a rather comedic scenario. Only Lestrade would have the guts to toss out a world class musician, after all.

"Still, it was nice seeing him get to rehearsal on time," Lestrade sighed a bit. "You were good for him, I think. He was interested in you, to say the least."

John scoffed. "Ridiculous assumption."

"No, really," Lestrade told him. "Believe me when I say Sherlock Holmes wouldn't put up with anyone he thought was dull or unintelligent, let alone agree to share a flat."

John only pressed his lips into a tight thin line and retreated to his seat as second clarinetist.

It was a good two hours before Sherlock entered the auditorium, accompanied by a young ponytailed girl that John could only recognize as an office worker at the conservatory named Molly Hooper who frequently worked the ticket booths on performance days.

"Lestrade, I believe this is one of yours," Molly said, her voice small and unconfident. "I found him asleep in the basement while I was looking for a paper."

"Good grief," Lestrade cried out. "Sherlock you are an enigma!"

Sherlock only proceeded to retrieve his violin from his case. "Molly, go sit at the piano and play an A for me to tune."

Suddenly, Molly began to stutter and twiddle her thumbs together. "Ah, m-mister Holmes, I don't…I mean I really can't…"

"Of course you can play," Sherlock scoffed. "Your fingers give it all away. Besides, it's just a note."

Still, Molly would not budge.

"Sherlock," Lestrade warned. "Don't patronize the girl."

Sherlock kept his cold stare on Molly for quite a while and the whole orchestra could just feel her shrink in his intimidating presence. Eventually, however, Sherlock complied. "Fine," he sighed. "Leave then. And I'd suggest leaving your pedophilic boyfriend as soon as possible."

At this, Molly gasped aloud and covered her mouth with her hand. From within the orchestra, John pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing how harsh Sherlock could be with the truth. Molly couldn't have possibly known her boyfriend was a pedophile. John couldn't even want to know how Sherlock had deduced that. But either way, Molly took the initiative to spin sharply on her heels and run out of the auditorium as quickly as possible.

Lestrade gave Sherlock a cold stare. "Now, was that really necessary?"

"For her happiness? Of course." Sherlock tucked his violin under his chin. "Now, I believe we have a recital to practice for."

* * *

John had the absolute worst rehearsal yet. The entire time he found he could not once glance at Sherlock without feeling ridiculously guilty, and yet his gaze always seemed to wander back to the prodigy. With his back facing John, John couldn't see any facial expressions, and judging by what little time he had with Sherlock's character, he figured that if Sherlock was feeling any sort of emotion whatsoever he would hardly be showing it on his face.

John began to wonder if he was really in the wrong for kicking Sherlock out. Sherlock was, after all, a bit of a broken man. A good man, John had concluded, albeit strange, although that could be attributed to his genius nature. Geniuses did, after all, have a reputation for being quirky and unnatural in their behaviors. Albert Einstein, for instance, could hardly even tie his own shoes. Sherlock was no exception. He was peculiar in his sleeping and dietary habits and lacked basic social skills needed to function properly in society. He was stiff and John seriously doubted Sherlock knew how to have any real fun. Overall inhuman, John concluded. Inhuman, but still human after all. And humans need a roof over their heads and a proper bed to sleep in.

Sherlock had, of course, a home to go to, and John did find it ridiculous that he refused to inhabit it, but he did understand that families often have feuds and he shouldn't judge Sherlock by his familial status. If Sherlock didn't want to stay at his family home he shouldn't feel obligated to. Still, without that home he was technically homeless, and John kicking him out didn't exactly make matters any better. John hadn't predicted that Sherlock would seek refuge in the basement of the conservatory. That was actually a health hazard, from a doctor's perspective. Basements weren't known for being particularly well-heated or hygienic. Sherlock obviously couldn't stay there forever.

Lestrade's words rang in John's head over and over, reminding him that Sherlock would never have agreed to room with John if he hadn't found John interesting. It was nice to be thought of as interesting. Lestrade told John that he was good for Sherlock. John had to admit it was certainly a good thing for Sherlock to arrive to rehearsal on time, for the sake of the whole orchestra. Besides, Sherlock seemed like the type of person who needed a guardian or someone to keep his head straight. At one point during rehearsal John actually shuddered at the thought of Sherlock relapsing on his drugs so close to the recital date.

When rehearsal was finally over, orchestra members began to file away slowly, packing up their instruments and leaving the auditorium to return home after a hard day's work. Chatter became idle and still, quieter and quieter as more people left until there was a cold silence that fell across the room.

John sat in his chair watching the crowd slowly disappear, his clarinet still in his lap and unpacked. He watched Lestrade gather all his scores into his black briefcase and give John a little acknowledging see-you-tomorrow nod before exiting the auditorium.

And thus, there came to be not a single person left but John Watson and the infamous Sherlock Holmes.

With his back still facing John, Sherlock brought his violin up yet again. For the longest time he just stood there with his violin under his chin, fingers dancing upon the strings but not a sound emitting from the precious instrument.

And then the sound of the violin filled the room as Sherlock slid his bow across the delicate strings with such ease.

The tune was incomprehensible. Soft and beautiful, but with a somber and bittersweet undertone, much like Sherlock himself, for his face was like that of an angel's, but a certain sadness laid dormant within his eyes-a certain sadness that John had tried not to look at while Sherlock had been staying with him.

Not wishing to disturb the violinist, John slouched in his seat and allowed his eyes to close, his breath soft and leveled as if he were peacefully asleep. He opened his mind to Sherlock's playing and the majestic music filled his ears in such a pleasant way John began to want to fall asleep.

This was different from how Sherlock normally played. Sadder, with more emotion, as if Sherlock was unable to play as fully as he could unless he was alone. Perhaps John enjoyed Sherlock's playing better this way. Here, John could hear Sherlock's heart pouring out into the large yet vacant room. Here, John suddenly realized, is where Sherlock could truly live.

When the song was done, Sherlock let the sound of his strings fade out into the distance. He dropped his violin to his side but did not turn until John began a slow clap. He clapped his hands ever slightly faster, and eventually Sherlock swiftly spun around to face the only other occupant on the stage.

When their eyes met, each found the other's face to be emotionless and unreadable. Or, well, Sherlock could tell John was still recovering from a hangover and a rather glorious morning orgasm, but beyond that John's emotions were kept safe from Sherlock's genius mind. John fixed his eyes on Sherlock's gorgeous face, gaze traveling all the way from the tips of Sherlock's dark unruly curls to his sharp cheekbones and down to his perfectly defined lips and across his smooth porcelain skin. Like a doll, John noted. A delicate doll a child might receive for Christmas and stick onto their shelf for all eternity, too afraid to play with its sheer beauty.

John spoke first. "I didn't know you were a composer."

Sherlock gave a half-smile. "There are many things you don't know about me."

"Then there are many things to find out."

The two men smiled at each other.

Then, John's face fell and he averted his gaze away from Sherlock. "I didn't mean to kick you out. I was drunk and out of my mind and I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Sherlock assured him, taking his violin into his arms and holding it like one would a guitar. "I regret to say I'm used to being tossed out. People don't tend to enjoy my company."

"I do though," John said. "I do enjoy your company. I'm afraid my life will become rather dull now that I've had a taste of your hectic lifestyle. So, you know, I wouldn't mind of you'd like to come back."

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line. "I annoy you."

John shrugged. "What's life without a few annoyances?"

He flashed a smile at Sherlock, whose immediate reaction was to flash a smile right back.

"I suppose if you can't live without me-"

"Now hold up, I never said that."

Both men erupted into laughter.


	5. Chapter 5

As the day of the recital drew nearer and nearer, John found himself becoming more and more nervous, as he tended to get every performance.

He marveled in the way Sherlock kept his composure throughout last minute rehearsals, although John supposed that once one has done as many recitals as Sherlock has, one tends to become immune to pre-performance butterflies.

On opening night, John slipped on his formal black suit and had problems fumbling around with the buttons on his shirt as his fingers wouldn't stop shaking. Within two hours he had checked to make sure his clarinet was all in order a record-breaking five times. He didn't know why he was so nervous, although his best guess would be that it was because tonight he would be performing with the great world class violinist Sherlock Holmes, an international sensation. The theater would most likely be the most crowded it had ever been.

When John checked up on Sherlock, he was horrified to find Sherlock sitting there at the kitchen table in his nice formal suit, latex gloves on his hands and a micropipette in his fingers.

"Sherlock!" John cried out in exasperation. "Lestrade will give me hell if you burn a hole in your suit!"

"Relax," Sherlock assured him. "This hydrochloric acid is only point-five molar, it can hardly do any extensive damage."

"Not the point!" John hissed, reaching over to slide the pipette out from Sherlock's hands. "Get those filthy gloves off and let's go. The star of the show can't be late!"

Sherlock sighed, but obeyed and peeled the gloves from his skin.

When he stood up, John's first realization was that Sherlock's collar was inside out. "Honestly," he huffed, taking a step towards the violinist. "You're a grown man, you'd think you'd be able to dress yourself properly." With that being said, he reached up to grasp Sherlock's collar, flipping it back the right way and adjusting its symmetry. He'd have to be blind to acknowledge Sherlock's well-defined collar bones in the process, though, and boy were they defined.

Taking a step back, John could look at Sherlock head to toe and find a gorgeous creature standing in front of him. Sherlock's black slacks framed his tall thin legs, making him appear even taller and thinner. His suit fit snug against his chest, accentuating his rather sharp hipbones. The black did well to oppose his white skin, highlighting his handsome face in ways John didn't think were actually possible. John concluded that few could look finer than Sherlock did at that moment.

Lestrade was a complete and total mess.

He was often known for being a cool and collected conductor, taking pride in his conducting abilities, but because this performance was so special, his nerves were finally building up and spilling over.

When the entire orchestra was seated, Lestrade rubbed his hands together nervously. "All right you idiots," he began. "Mycroft Holmes will be here tonight so I don't want to hear a single wrong note out of any of you-especially the trumpets, Anderson I'm looking at you. Our salaries depend on his happiness so if you're thinking of buying your children Christmas gifts, I'd suggest you play like your life is on the line. I don't want the violins rushing in measure fifteen and I don't want the cellos dragging in measure seventy four or I'll hunt you all down and slit your throats in your sleep. All right? All right. Good luck." And with that being said, he left the stage to join Sherlock.

Sherlock, being backstage the whole time, had missed the rather interesting pep talk, but then again it's not like he needed one in the first place.

And thus the orchestra began warming up.

When the curtain finally rose, John found himself in the midst of more people than he had ever seen in his life. All these people came for the orchestra. More importantly, for Sherlock. God only knew how many important people were in the audience, how many people would be disappointed if they failed. If John failed. Oh, John couldn't fail. Not now. No squeaks. No hesitations. No fumbling around for the right fingers. No missed sharps. No skipped measures. Keep your eyes on the conductor. Keep your mind cleared and open. Keep your breathing controlled and regular. Don't mess up. Don't mess up. Don't mess up.

Nervewrecking.

Sherlock and Lestrade shook firm hands backstage before Lestrade exhaled sharply and walked out onto the stage. When he did, the whole theater started a near deafening clap.

Lestrade took his place at the conductor's podium and silenced the crowd. Then he turned to face his orchestra and raised his arms.

On the downbeat, the whole theater was suddenly filled with music.

The first song was played without the aide of the soloist, so John had the chance to focus on himself and his playing. For a little while, adrenaline rushed through his body and he struggled to keep in beat. Eventually though, his body became accustomed to everything and he found himself playing smoothly like he had always done in practice. He had no time in between page turning to glance up at the audience. He had no time for anything but music.

He watched Lestrade with a careful eye as Lestrade conducted furiously. His motions were sharp when the orchestra needed to play sharp, and soft when the orchestra needed to play soft. Just as any good conductor, his movements dictated the tone of the piece. This is what made Lestrade an amiable conductor, well-respected and the best of all London.

By the time the piece had ended, John was rather pleased with himself. He had played near perfect, and from what he had heard, most of the orchestra had too. When he finally allowed himself to look up at the audience, he found most of them to have pleasing expressions upon their face.

There was a pause as Lestrade took time to wipe the sweat from his forehead-as the stage could get rather hot, especially with so many people playing so hard in such hot attire in the middle of summer.

Then, Lestrade welcomed in the soloist. Ah, the highlight of the night. The moment everyone had been waiting for.

None could walk with such dignified strides as Sherlock Holmes, John concluded. None could look so majestic and proud standing up there on stage. None could look so harsh, yet calm. So contradictory. So Sherlock. And John had never heard an audience clap louder in his life.

When the second piece began, John felt as if the orchestra was finally whole again. He felt as if this was the moment he had been waiting for all his life. He had been in the presence of soloists before, but none felt as homely as Sherlock did. Sherlock belonged here. This was his orchestra. This was his home.

Sherlock did not falter once. His fingers glided nimbly with grace and conviction across his strings. His bow slid with such ease it seemed like anybody who picked up a violin could play like that. He made it look so easy to scale and slide down the notes, yet in their hearts everyone knew otherwise. Everyone knew few could play like this. Few could match up to Sherlock's standard. Few were certainly as interesting, to say the least.

And John was proud. That's our soloist, he thought. This is his orchestra. And he lives with me, John wanted to shout. A world class violinist, the best in the world, shares my home and eats my food and spills sodium hydroxide on my carpet.

This time, John watched the audience almost as much as he watched the conductor. As he put his clarinet to his lips, he witnessed the audience become just as captivated by Sherlock as John had been the first time he had heard him play.

Oh, Sherlock, John thought to himself, you've done well.

* * *

And at the end of the night, when the final note was played and the final bow was taken, John finally exhaled.

The curtain fell and the orchestra was cut off from the audience. A job well done indeed.

"Congratulations," Lestrade acknowledged his musicians. "I guess we'll all keep our jobs yet."

Immediately when Lestrade spun around he found himself face to face with Sherlock, who seemed to not be as pleased as everyone else. "You didn't inform me my brother was coming," Sherlock snapped.

"Your brother owns the whole damn theater," Lestrade remarked. "He has the right to go to any performance he damn well pleases."

Sherlock huffed.

"Oh come on," Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Don't be like that. Everyone had a good time. They all loved you. Go home and don't think."

"You know I'm incapable of not thinking," Sherlock tells him.

"Well try anyways." With that being said, Lestrade walked away from the younger Holmes.

Before Sherlock even had the chance to put his instrument down, however, John crept up to him, his eyes shining bright and a smile stretching across his face from ear to ear.

"Sherlock, that was wonderful!" John laughed. "Amazing! Fantastic!" He suddenly threw his arms around Sherlock, trapping him in a tight hug and squeezing hard, like Sherlock would up and fly away if John ever let go.

Sherlock, surprised by John's movements, opened his eyes wide and parted his lips slightly. After searching for the right words to say, he settled on "you…good. You did good."

John doesn't think he'd ever been happier in his entire life.

"So, what now?" John asked on the way home. "Off to see the world again?" The times they had together were certainly eventful, and John could admit he hadn't seen that much excitement since the war, but he had to remind himself and Sherlock was a traveling star and that no matter how much London was glad to have him home, they needed to share him with the rest of the world. Still, John's heart grew heavy with the idea of Sherlock leaving so soon. What would become of them both? John would lose the only excuse he had to have some real fun, and Sherlock would lose the closest thing he would consider to be having a friend. It would be like a romantic couple breaking up. Heartbreaking.

Sherlock's response was a bit more delayed than usual. "Actually I was thinking of taking a bit of a vacation here, if you haven't gotten sick of me yet."

"Oh, not at all," John agreed excitedly, grateful that perhaps his adventure-filled days were not yet over.

Obviously, it was late when the two of them got back home. John's first instinct was to peel out of his hot suit and into a light summer bathrobe. With the adrenaline gone and the energy wiped out, he collapsed onto his bed and shut his eyes tight.

A couple hours later, still pretty much asleep, John cracked one eye open and through the crack of his slightly open door he could see that the light in the sitting room was still on and the sound of a violin filled the air.


	6. Chapter 6

**THIS IS A DOUBLE UPDATE. DON'T MISS THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER!**

* * *

The entire orchestra had a vacation after their big summer recital. John found pleasure in sitting in his arm chair and reading his newspaper for as long as he pleased. He made toast and eggs for breakfast or took a trip to the local coffee shop every morning and lazied around his flat every afternoon. He was not displeased by his vacation at all.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was slowly growing mad. John could see why Sherlock had gone on so many tours. His genius mind simply needed stimulation. While many, including John, could take a few days off to relax, Sherlock was not built to survive a sedentary lifestyle. He needed activities. Stimulation. Perhaps this was why he had turned to drugs so many years ago.

John sighed, looking up from his morning newspaper. "Sherlock, please, if you're not going to play properly, I'd rather you not play at all."

Sherlock, who had been screeching away at his violin, groaned in frustration. "John I think I'm going mad."

"You are mad," John noted, nonchalantly flipping the page.

"I need a cigarette."

"No you don't."

"Well then get me something to slaughter."

"How about a nice frog to dissect?"

"Ugh, how primary school."

"This is coming from someone who didn't know Mexico was in North America."

Sherlock sighed in frustration. "Why should I care what bloody continent Mexico is on? Do I live there?"

John couldn't help but laugh a little. Nothing Sherlock could say or do could get him into a foul mood today.

And so the dangerous boredom of Sherlock Holmes continued.

Three days into vacation, John had to put out a fire in his own kitchen.

Four days into vacation, Sherlock began hurling things at the wall.

Five days into vacation, Sherlock laid on the couch and refused to get up, informing John that he was sick and literally dying of boredom.

"John, I need to get out of here."

"You were the one who said you needed a vacation."

"That was only because I didn't want to leave you."

John had grown silent after that. He truly had no idea how much he had began to impact Sherlock's life, to the point where Sherlock's schedule revolved around when he was ready to take a break from rooming with John.

And then, on the sixth day of vacation, it seemed like Sherlock had finally cracked.

All John had wanted to do that afternoon was sit watching the news in his comfortable armchair. He told Sherlock that if he wanted action so much, to go to the store and pick up some damn milk, but Sherlock had refused. "I'd rather skin myself," was his actual response.

And so Sherlock was left to sulk in his room while John relaxed in front of the telly.

Nothing particularly interesting was happening today. Another celebrity wedding. Another bank robbery. John had half a mind to fall asleep right there in his armchair.

Suddenly Sherlock emerged from his room, clad in a thin t-shirt and an elastic pair of trousers because it had just been wicked hot all week.

John didn't take too much notice to Sherlock's presence. He didn't care if Sherlock just moped around all day.

Sherlock helped himself to a cup of tea and enjoyed it at the kitchen table. Then for a few hours he entertained himself with his numerous chemicals. He had recently ordered more, but would not receive them for a few days yet, so he worked with what he had.

"Sherlock, don't get silver nitrate on my floor," John called out. "That stuff is a bitch to clean up."

As usual, Sherlock didn't respond, too engrossed in his work.

Eventually, however, not even his chemistry could keep Sherlock busy for so long.

While John was engrossed in a story about two movie stars' divorce, the television was suddenly block by a tall lanky figure. John blinked a few times. "Sherlock."

The figure took a step forward.

"Sherlock, I can't see."

Suddenly, Sherlock had thrown a leg over John's side and sat straddled across John's lap.

"Sherlock, what-," John started, obviously confused and perhaps a little bit shocked. He didn't, however, push the taller man off.

Sherlock, legs on either side of John, grasped John's shoulders with his hands tightly, securing his position on John's lap.

"Hey-," John began, but his words were cut off when Sherlock's lips suddenly pressed against his.

Surprised, John inhaled sharply, but other than that he made no effort to remove the man invading his privacy or turn away. He sat there, his body limp, and simply let it happen, though he didn't exactly know why. The natural reaction would of course be to push Sherlock away and perhaps slap him in the face a few times. But instead, John allowed Sherlock to sit their and join their lips.

John did the polite thing and closed his eyes. Sherlock's lips moved against John's ever so slightly, a rather tender kiss by John's standards. Sherlock's hands tightened around John's shoulders. Sherlock's moves were amateur and juvenile, but John had to admit Sherlock had quite a pair of soft lips, and he couldn't ignore the fact that the two of them seemed to fit together just right. However, when John did open his eyes for just a peek, he found Sherlock's eyes wide and staring right at him, as if he were analyzing John's ever mood.

This startled John, but he managed to calmly place his hands on Sherlock's chest and push the other man away. It seemed Sherlock was reluctant to end the kiss, but he did not struggle against John's hands.

"What…" John exhaled sharply. "Was that?"

"An experiment," Sherlock replied as-a-matter-of-factly before finally standing up and moving away from John.

John let out a short laugh. "What sort of bloody experiment was that?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I had never kissed anyone before."

"What?" John yelled out in surprise. "Never?"

"I've never been popular with either gender."

"But you're so-," John had to clear his throat to keep him from finishing his own sentence. He hesitated, licking his freshly kissed lips slowly. "And you figured you'd take advantage of me just to find out what it's like being kissed?"

"I didn't think you'd mind," Sherlock admitted.

"You have absolutely no regard for personal space," John noted, his tone a bit sharp.

"I didn't mean anything by it"

"That's the point!" John suddenly snapped. But then he sighed and softened his voice. "Sherlock, kisses like that are supposed to be shared by people who love each other."

"But we do, don't we?" Sherlock asked.

John raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"We do," Sherlock repeated. "I can see it in the way your eyes dilate when you look at me. Your breathing changes tempo whenever I enter the room. It's usually a slow andante, but in my presence it picks up speed to an allegretto. And I-,"

"Stop," John interrupted him, holding out a hand to signal a halt. "Just stop it, okay? I don't want to hear it." He stood up abruptly, his hands falling into clenched fists at his sides. "Just leave me alone, okay?" And with that, he stormed off to his bedroom, wondering why he had taken in Sherlock Holmes in the first place.


	7. Chapter 7

The next day, orchestra practice resumed again. During the off-season rehearsal only lasted a few hours a week, since there was no need for extensive training.

John awoke bright and early to find that coffee had already been made and Sherlock was already dressed and at the kitchen table. John froze in his tracks, still hesitant to even approach the man, but he mustered up enough soldier courage to step forward. Shirt still half-unbuttoned, he took the cup of coffee obviously meant for him and took a sip. Awful. He grimaced slightly, but when he looked up he saw Sherlock's expectant eyes and realized Sherlock had put way more effort into making that cup of coffee than was needed. John had the aching feeling that if he criticized the drink, Sherlock would turn into some sort of injured puppy. So he gave his best fake smile and said "thank you."

Sherlock pressed his lips together and John could already tell his lie had been seen through. Sherlock stood up in a huff. "Don't drink it if it's awful. I don't want you sick. Just dump it."

"No," John assured him. "No it's…it's good." He gave another experimental sip. Perhaps if he drank enough of it his tastebuds would become accustomed to the strange taste.

An awkward silence fell upon the room as John enjoyed himself with his morning news, perfectly aware that Sherlock was still standing there and watching him like a hawk.

At nine, John gathered his instrument and slipped on his shoes. It was a beautiful day outside, perfect for a walk to the theater. "Well," he said as he took his clarinet in hand. "I'm off to rehearsal. There's a bit of sandwich meat in the refrigerator if I'm not back in time for lunch."

"Wait," Sherlock called out. "I'm coming with you."

John gave him a quizzing look. "Sherlock, your part is done. You don't need to go."

"I want to," Sherlock told him. "To keep you company."

John was conflicted. On one hand he did rather enjoy having someone to talk to on the trip to and back from the conservatory. He found he could engage in intelligent conversations with Sherlock-good for keeping his aging brain stimulated and healthy. On the other hand, after yesterday's incident, John hardly even wanted to look the man in the eye, never mind chat with him. He knew Sherlock meant nothing by his actions, but the fact that it had happened lingered nonetheless. John was not a man to take advantage of.

But he caved in anyways. "All right," he sighed. "Hurry up then."

And so they walked side by side in silence, never once speaking of yesterday's incident. When John took a peek at Sherlock, he could practically see the violinist's apology written across his face. Sherlock rarely showed facial expressions unless he truly wanted them to be seen, and John could tell that his face was the closest thing to an apology John would get.

But what was Sherlock apologizing for, John wondered? For invading John's privacy? For the kiss itself? For deducing that John loved him?

John's eyebrows furrowed as he tried to stop thinking.

Needless to say, Lestrade was quite surprised when Sherlock showed up for rehearsal.

"Call me an observer," Sherlock told him. And of course nobody really argues with Sherlock Holmes, so an observer he was called.

Practice began with a new piece of music to sight read. John had been complimented on his sight reading skills on more than one occasion, so he had confidence in the piece, and yet he still worried, for sitting right there in the front row of the audience sat an internationally acclaimed violinist ready to jump out at any mistakes he heard.

To his surprise, Sherlock kept quiet all rehearsal. His face alternated from calm and expressionless to twisted and concentrated. Sometimes his eyes would close and sometimes they would be wide open. He sat with one leg crossed over the other and his arms folded across his chest. He kept still for the most part, but on occasion a finger or a toe would start tapping in time to Lestrade's conducting. Quite honestly, John had never seen Sherlock express so much in his face and body language.

More than once, John would look up from his music to find Sherlock's gaze directly towards him. Even from so far away, John could see the bright blaze of Sherlock's multi-colored eyes burn into John's mind. When he did look at John, Sherlock wore no emotion on his face whatsoever, so any chance John had of deciphering how Sherlock felt about his playing diminished in a heartbeat.

John played on, however, to the best he possibly could. His fingers ran nimbly across the keys of his clarinet and his breathing was kept under control, his eyes racing across page after page, scanning each individual note and executing it precisely.

"We'll stop here for today," Lestrade informed his orchestra. He then turned to Sherlock and the two of them exchanged handshakes. Afterwards, Sherlock's arms slinked back to their original crossed position.

When everyone started leaving, John packed his instrument quickly and walked briskly towards Sherlock until he was standing not a foot away from him. Their eyes met for a long time, but neither of them said a word. John found himself a bit disappointed. He didn't really know what he was expecting Sherlock to even say. Perhaps a "good job" or a "you played well." John could have even settled for a "you sucked, here's what you need to improve." But instead, Sherlock kept his mouth shut and his lips pressed together tightly.

The two of them just stood there staring at each other for the longest time, until Sherlock finally uncrossed his long legs and stood. When he did, John found he had to look up in order to meet Sherlock's gaze, and perhaps it was a metaphor for their careers. No matter what John did, he would always be inferior to the amazing Sherlock Holmes. The international phenomena. The violinist all violinists aspire to play like. And it wasn't like John minded too much-after all he didn't exactly want to be in the spotlight and Sherlock seemed like he just belonged there. He certainly deserved it.

It wasn't until halfway home that Sherlock spoke to John for the first time since that early morning.

"It's not fair," he suddenly remarked out of the blue.

"What isn't?" John asked.

"That Sally Donovan. She's an atrocious clarinetist."

John was taken aback. "How do you mean?"

"Well, she has no doubt a taste for technique, and she does make fewer mistakes than you-," John was perhaps a bit offended by that statement, but Sherlock continued on like he hadn't noticed. "But she has no feeling for the instrument. She plays in mezzopiano and mezzoforte with no in-between or beyond. She can't crescendo to save her life and quite honestly, she looks like she's in pain every time she touches her lips to her instrument."

John opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. He contemplated Sherlock's insults, though. It's true, John hadn't heard much of a tone range from her instrument now that Sherlock had mentioned it.

Suddenly, Sherlock let out a short growl. "I told Lestrade to demote her years ago."

"Sherlock!" John cried out. "You didn't! Well no wonder she hates you so much!"

"I did," Sherlock defended himself. "I told him she had no business being first clarinet. He told me she was the best that orchestra had to offer and I told him if that was so, he should find some other clarinetist, and now he's got one and he still hesitates to strip her of her chair!"

"Who?" John asked, genuinely curious. "What do you mean Lestrade's got a better clarinetist? Who is it?"

Sherlock gave John a look like John was supposed to have known already. They stopped in their tracks and their eyes met for only the millionth time that day. Sherlock licked his bottom lip once and swallowed before he opened his mouth to whisper "you."

John was perplexed. "Me?" He asked, as if he were going deaf and perhaps had misheard Sherlock.

"Did I stutter?" Sherlock mocked him, his tone completely serious and his eyes narrowed.

"But you just said-,"

"I said you miss more notes than her," Sherlock interrupted him. "But that isn't all there is to playing an instrument. In terms of overall performance, you are in fact the better clarinetist."

John exhaled sharply and stumbled around his mind for the right words to say. Never before had he been quite insulted and complimented at the same time, especially by the likes of Sherlock. In fact, it was the first time since they had first met that Sherlock had ever mentioned John's playing, and now he was saying John was the best clarinetist of the orchestra?

"I can see it when you play," Sherlock continued. "That instrument is your life, is it not?"

"I…I'd rather die than lose it," John stuttered in agreement.

"Good," Sherlock replies. "Keep that mentality and success will follow soon thereafter."

John bit his lips a few times before he could muster out "thank you" followed by a "I think."


	8. Chapter 8

With a free afternoon, John tended to enjoy a nice rest in his comfy armchair with a sophisticated book. Today, however, John's mind seemed to be at a certain unease. Instead of enjoying the fine classics of Lewis Carroll, his mind wandered off more often than not and John found himself in deep thought. As Sherlock played the violin on the opposite side of the room, John recalled Sherlock's earlier statement that John should be first clarinetist and wondered if there was some deep psychoanalytical ulterior motive to Sherlock's unusually kind words. Never in their short time together had Sherlock ever truly complimented someone the way he had complimented John. It was a rather strange compliment, yes, but John figured it was the best he'd ever get out of the musical genius.

He unconsciously touched his fingers to his lips, as if he could still feel Sherlock's presence there. He recalled Sherlock saying that their kiss was his first, and perhaps John felt a bit of pride there.

Then there was the matter of Sherlock spouting that they were obviously in love with each other. John couldn't know how anyone could possibly judge love based on physical attributions, but if anyone could, it would be Sherlock. Do his eyes really dilate in Sherlock's presence? It's not like John can see for himself. Did he really love Sherlock? He enjoyed his company, yes, but was that love? Perhaps John didn't really know what love was. All his previous relationships had ended in disaster, some girls complaining that John didn't truly love them. What, then, was love?

When John came back to reality for a split second, he realized the air was quiet. When had Sherlock stopped playing? And where was the rascal anyways?

Sherlock turned out to be standing directly across from John, violin at his side and his face buried into his elbow.

John sighed and slammed his unfinished book shut. "What's up with you?" he asked.

Sherlock did not remove his arm from his face as he stared directly into John's eyes and took several deep breaths.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

And then Sherlock spoke, his voice strained as if he was trying to hold himself back. "I have the impending urge to kiss you again."

John opened his mouth, shut it, opened it, and shut it again. Contemplating the proper thing to say, he licked his lips a few times before deciding on giving a slight nod. "Okay," he finally said. "All right, we need to talk."

"I don't want to talk," Sherlock whined, still unable to cover his face.

"That isn't for you to decide," John answered. "Set your violin down and come sit here you big baby." He patted the seat across from him.

Sherlock obeyed, albeit hesitantly, and gently laid his precious instrument across the table before taking the seat across from John. His hands balled into fists on his lap as if he were trying to control himself.

John sighed again and ran a hand through his hair, obviously troubled by the situation. "This isn't working," He admitted.

Sherlock looked up at John sharply. "What isn't?"

"This…this…" John flailed his hand around the air a bit. "Thing. Us dancing around like nothing happened. We need to discuss our feelings."

Sherlock gave a bit of a grimace. "I'd rather not."

"If you don't speak, it's only going to get worse," John told him.

Sherlock averted his eyes away from John. "I already told you. We love each other. It's only obvious."

"Ah ah ah," John interrupted him. "That's not the only factor to consider though, is there? There's also the matter of you invading my privacy-."

"I'm sorr-."

"Don't," John cut him off again. Sherlock complied and shut up and John leaned back in his chair. For a long time, silence fell upon the room. Neither man made eye contact with each other. John furrowed his eyebrows in frustration because Sherlock was indeed a frustrating man. He sat in thought for a long time, contemplating each decision and each consequence. On one hand, he wasn't sure how he would be able to live day to day without Sherlock's company –not after getting a taste of chaos. Then again, he wasn't sure how he would be able to handle Sherlock if they became a couple. Sherlock wasn't exactly the coupley type of person after all, John had noticed. "So…" John started. "What do you suggest we do now?"

Sherlock was hesitant to respond. "Well, I suppose the most natural thing to do when two people are fond of each other is to pursue a relationship."

John shook his head. "But you don't want that."

"I'm willing to try."

John stared straight at the man across him and found nothing but determination upon Sherlock's face. Sherlock was not someone who did things halfheartedly as long as he was interested in them, and as John could recall Lestrade's words, Sherlock was certainly interested in John.

"This won't work," John told him. "You…you travel. We'll be apart often. You…you'll find some other interest and-."

"John," Sherlock's tone was harsh enough to make John instantly shut up. "I promise you this is no fleeting interest. Never before have I felt something like this." And when John glanced at Sherlock's expression, he found Sherlock to look almost like he was in some sort of pain. "This…this feeling is so new to me," Sherlock explained. "And I'm scared."

John's face softened. "Oh Sherlock, there's nothing to be afraid of."

"There is!" Sherlock cried out. "I'm frightened because I don't know what to do. I've never been good with other people. I don't know how to talk without offending others, I don't know how close or how far to stand away from a person, and I certainly don't know when it's okay to touch. I've always been afraid that if I was ever in a relationship, I'd screw something up and they'd leave me and so I've always repressed my emotions. But then you came along and I fell in love and I couldn't control myself around you to the point where I exploded and acted out, and that's why I kissed you, but of course that was a mistake because all I do is make mistakes and-," Sherlock stopped short, perhaps realizing that he was straying too far and revealing too much about himself. So he huffed and tucked his knees into his chest on the chair and hid his face from John again. "This is all your fault," he hissed in frustration.

John was taken aback. He listened to Sherlock's rant in stunned silence. He had no idea how much of a struggle Sherlock's own mind was to him. It was a common philosophy that geniuses knew everything about everything but themselves. It was truly an amazing phenomena, how such an expressive musician could not control his own emotions off stage. Amazing, but heartbreaking. No person should have to feel conflicted over their own feelings, John decided.

Making his final decision, John briskly stood from his armchair and stepped in front of the cowering violinist. He relaxed his facial muscles as he pried Sherlock's hands from his face. John watched Sherlock's expression grow into that of surprise as John stepped ever so closer and leaned forward so that they were eye level. With their faces mere centimeters apart, Sherlock flinched for a second, and then John pressed his lips against Sherlock's.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, eyes wide and eyebrows high, his heart beginning to race fast within his chest.

John took his hands and touched Sherlock's face, gently caressing the soft flesh of Sherlock's jaw as they kissed. Sherlock's own hands were unsure of what to do, clenching and unclenching over and over at his sides.

A few moments later, John's eyes cracked open just a bit and he chuckled against Sherlock's lips. "Sherlock," he whispered, breaking the kiss in favor of taking a breath. "It's polite to close your eyes when kissing."

Sherlock's lips stayed parted, his jaw dropped slightly and his eyes still wide, his face frozen in shock. Then he swallowed sharply and asked "can I kiss you again?"

John cracked a smile and gave Sherlock a quick peck on the lips. "You don't have to ask for permission, you know."

Sherlock's response was to throw his arms around John and smash their lips together-eyes closed this time-and off they went snogging into the night.


	9. Chapter 9

Dating Sherlock was like dating a child. Being in a relationship was, of course, new to Sherlock. He had, of course, warned John of his lack of experience and John had, of course, told him not to worry, that he'd learn soon enough. Sherlock was not very fond of touch. He liked touching, yes, but when John wanted to return the favor, Sherlock would often back away on reflex. He was also not a very romantic person. He didn't understand the concept of going out to fancy restaurants for non business-related purposes.

"It's romantic," John had said.

"It's excessive and unnecessary," was Sherlock's response.

"Well then where do you suggest we go for dates?"

"Why do we have to go on dates anyways?"

"Because that's what normal couples do!"

"Is it?"

"Yes!"

"Oh," Sherlock said disappointedly. "How dull."

Sherlock still insisted on accompanying John to rehearsal, if only to defeat boredom.

On a day where he was feeling particularly touchy, Sherlock walked beside John with his fingers inconspicuously grazing by John's every so often.

John, however, was not an idiot, and could see through Sherlock's intentions quite clearly. He broke out into a smirk, silently laughing to himself at the fact that a grown man like Sherlock could still act like a shy high school girl trying to get her little crush to notice her.

In order to spare Sherlock the frustration, John took the initiative to slip his hand into Sherlock's, interlacing their fingers together.

Sherlock looked at him in surprise, and John only smiled back at him. "You can hold my hand, you know," he teased him. "It's not like you're trying to inconspicuously slip me drugs."

Sherlock's response was to turn his head away from John in embarrassment, which only made John chuckle to himself.

Having Sherlock at rehearsal certainly was having an effect on the orchestra. With his cold stare and harsh observations, Lestrade found his musicians to be the best behaved and the most practiced they've ever been. Perhaps it was because everyone was afraid of being insulted by the prodigy that they worked extra hard and made fewer mistakes than ever before.

While Sherlock enjoyed his 'vacation' with John, however, the rest of the world was impatiently waiting for his next appearance. Sherlock's phone would often ring with texts from Mycroft's employees and, more recently, from Mycroft himself as he had become quite as impatient as the rest of the universe.

_The Boston Symphony Orchestra wants you. You like America, don't you? Get back to me if you're interested_

_-MH_

"Who was that text from?" John asked, getting rather suspicious of all the recent texts Sherlock had been getting and ignoring.

"Nobody important," Sherlock shrugged without even glancing at his phone.

"Oh okay." And John knew he should probably look into it, but perhaps he was a bit selfish and feared for the day Sherlock must travel again.

_Or how about Spain? They love you in Spain._

_-MH_

_If you prefer to stay in England, you've been invited to play at a Cambridge U reception._

_-MH_

_You could play for the Prime Minister's birthday._

_-MH_

_Sherlock, for god's sake pick or I'll pick for you._

_-MH_

Boring. Boring, boring, dull and boring.

_The International Violin Competition is coming up if you'd rather prepare for that. Surprise, it's in London this year._

_-MH_

Oh, finally something of interest.

"John, I'm competing in the international violin competition."

John looked up from his book. "Haven't you won that like, two years in a row? Why not give someone else a chance?"

"Because if that someone else is Jim Moriarty, I won't have it."

Ah, yes. Jim Moriarty, a Scottish violinist said to rival even Sherlock's talent. He had only been gaining popularity in recent years, but his fame spread quick and he was known for having a notorious personality, being able to manipulate by any means to get whichever recital he wanted. John shuddered at the thought of such a cheating man becoming reigning world champion. "Well then you better start practicing," he nodded.

And Sherlock did.

Of course, one of the prerequisites for entering the competition was the need for a piano accompanist. While the audience was impressed by Sherlock's talent, many pianists feared him, for he was famous for making accompanists cry and run out of the room within an hour of meeting him, and thus avoided him at all costs. It was difficult finding an accompanist to willingly play for Sherlock that was of the high quality that Sherlock expected all his accompanists to have. If John could play piano, Sherlock could have settled, but alas John had no experience with the instrument.

One day after a scheduled afternoon rehearsal, John excused himself. "Just need to pop off to the loo for a bit."

With the room emptied and vacant, Sherlock leaned against the wall next to the backstage doorway and crossed his arms over his chest, patiently waiting.

Just a few short moments later, a familiar female secretary cautiously walked onto the stage like a mouse, taking each step as carefully as possible. When Molly Hooper hadn't noticed Sherlock, he straightened his back and watched her curiously. It was obvious she believed everyone had left.

Molly, her hair combed back into a neat ponytail, carefully stepped across the stage as if she wasn't allowed to be there. Her destination, as Sherlock suspected, was the piano. She approached the fine instrument in the center of the stage as if it were dangerous and, with her back turned to Sherlock, reached her hand out and ran it across the surface of the object of her desire.

As Sherlock could have predicted, her next move was to sit at the piano and uncover the keys. She marveled at them for a moment before hesitantly touching one. It hardly made a sound, but she jumped a little anyways.

Then she positioned her hands above the keys, and played.

Beethoven's Pathetique, second movement. A slow and soft andante that made for a sweet melody, but only if played in the right hands, and indeed these hands were right.

Sherlock looked on with concentrated eyes as she played. It from there on he decided that she, yes she, the lowly secretary who once found him asleep in the basement, would become his accompanist.

When John showed up a minute later, the gaze Sherlock gave him made him halt in his tracks. The music of Molly's ingenious playing filled his ears and he understood Sherlock's intentions completely without a single word exchanged.

And thus the two of them listened on. John closed his eyes to hear better, his mind at peace and his heart relaxed, while Sherlock looked on with wide eyes, heart racing in anticipation. This was the passion in their bodies, expressed in contradictory ways.

When the piece was over, Molly lingered over the piano for just a moment more. And then, the sound of clapping startled her. She snapped her head around and found two men standing there, one taller the source of the clapping and the shorter other simply smiling.

Sherlock did not ceasing his clapping as he walked towards her until he was an appropriate distance away. In reaction, Molly swiftly stood, as if she had just been caught in the middle of a crime. Her face twisted into a mix between surprise and absolute horror.

She remained frozen as Sherlock took one of her hands into his.

"The sound that emanates from the tips of your fingers is a sound few can achieve," Sherlock says breathlessly, gently caressing Molly's hand, his eyes staring at the calluses that covered her fingertips wide and in awe. Molly, of course, was left speechless. Her mind was in shock upon being caught playing by the genius of the entire music world and even being complimented by such a phenomenal violinist.

"Be my accompanist," Sherlock stated simply, never being one to dance around a topic.

Molly began to stutter. "I…I can't…I mean, I don't…I don't play in public."

"What you mean is that you haven't played in public," Sherlock corrected her. Then his expression turned serious. "Play with me, Molly Hooper, and your name will be known across the globe. People will shower you with love and your face will be synonymous to glory. Would you like that?"

And Molly, perhaps still in disbelief, could only nod quickly in response.

Behind the both of them, John's smile turned into a great big grin.


	10. Chapter 10

_**sexual content ahead in case that's what you've all be waiting for**_

* * *

Being an accompanist, Molly soon found, was quite different from being a soloist. Suddenly her job was not to play as she pleased, but rather to keep up with Sherlock, and she found herself engrossed in the most intense rehearsals she had ever witnessed.

"Faster, Molly," Sherlock demanded, his voice rough and harsh. "Faster, faster dammit, are you listening to me? Listen to me you poor excuse for an accompanist!"

"Sherlock!" John's voice bellowed from within the audience seats. The three of them had taken to rehearse immediately after orchestra practice when the stage was empty. John's purpose was really to keep Sherlock from practically wrangling Molly's neck. "Don't patronize her!"

"From the top," Sherlock snarled, backing off just a bit.

Molly, nearly reduced to tears, only nodded and repositioned her hands above the keys. Sherlock's scary change in character had been alarming to her and it was a wonder she was still coming to practice. It was amazing to her, how Sherlock had been so gentle and affectionate just a few days ago and now he did nothing but insult her all day long.

And so they began again.

"Play," Sherlock shouted. "Play like you've just realized your boyfriend's been cheating on you with the third chair violist!"

Molly froze on the spot and looked up at Sherlock with hurt eyes.

Sherlock returned her look with a curious gaze. "I thought it was obvious."

"Sherlock, please!" John yelled in exasperation. "Don't say things that aren't necessary! God, give the poor girl a break!"

The realization did, however, induce Molly to play with the ferocity Sherlock had intended.

"The competition is in two weeks," Sherlock stated bluntly after hours of hard practice. "I'd suggest going home and practicing like your life depended on it."

Molly nodded quickly and bowed her head like she was ashamed of herself.

Sherlock spun around on his heels and began to walk away without another word.

John walked up to Molly and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. He gave her a sympathetic smile and told her "try not to let him get to you. He just gets so passionate about music, you know?"

She nodded again, seemingly incapable of doing anything else.

John sighed and gave her shoulder a little pat. "He does think you're an excellent pianist, even if he doesn't say it. He wouldn't have recruited you if you weren't. Doesn't settle for anything less than the best, you know."

And she looked up at him and gave him her best smile. "I know. Why do you think I'm still here?"

"That's the spirit," John grinned.

"John!" came Sherlock's harsh, impatient voice. Let's go!"

"All right, all right I'm coming you impatient bastard!" John called out. He and Molly exchanged one last glance before John turned around and half walked-half jogged to Sherlock's side.

As they began walking away, perfectly aware that Molly was still watching, Sherlock tried to slip his hand into John's, but John refused and pulled away. "No I'm not giving you the privilege of holding my hand."

"Why not?" Sherlock whined.

"Because you make little girls cry."

Sherlock pouted.

Still stopped in her tracks, Molly couldn't help but smile at the two. It was true she was working harder than she ever had in her life, but perhaps Sherlock's harshness was good for her. To toughen her up. She felt like she could manage-as long as she had John to save her just in case.

* * *

With the competition growing near, John found Sherlock becoming more focused than he had ever seen. Sherlock often practiced early in the morning and long late into the night, viciously pounding away on his poor, unaware instrument. John awoke to Sherlock's playing and fell asleep to it day by day and night by night until finally he had enough.

"Sherlock, please eat something," John sighed in vexation, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

Sherlock's response was to ignore John and continue his practicing.

"Jesus," John said. "If I knew this was how you acted during competition season I would never have let you register."

Sherlock halted his playing. "John, kindly shut up. I'm busy."

John threw his hands up in defeat. "Okay, okay fine." And he left it alone for a while.

Eventually, however, after listening to the same measure over and over and over again, John decided that he'd rather go deaf than listen to any more. And so he stood and approached Sherlock. Sherlock, facing the window, could obviously sense John's presence, but he made no effort to resist.

John reached out his arms and wrapped them around Sherlock's waist as he played, pressing their bodies together.

"Don't touch me," Sherlock warned. "I'm busy."

"Why not?" John inquired, nuzzling the side of his face into Sherlock's upper back, just between the shoulder blades where his head fit strangely perfectly. "We're boyfriends after all."

"Ugh," Sherlock expressed, ceasing his playing. "Don't say that word."

"Boyfriend," John tested him. "You're my boyfriend. I have a boyfriend."

"Stop," Sherlock complained. "That is the most juvenile word. How old are we?"

"Then what do you suggest we call each other, then? Lovers?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, far too intimate."

At that comment, John raised his head. "Too intimate?"

"Of course," was Sherlock's response. "Lovers implies that we have engaged in some sort of sexual activity."

Oh, this interested John very much. "That could change," he said, hands inconspicuously sliding up Sherlock's clothed chest. "I mean, I could sure go for some sexual activity right about now."

"John…" Sherlock started, letting his violin drop to his side as John's hands continued to seductively glide up and down his torso. "I haven't…I mean, I've never…"

"Sssh," John commanded, planting a small kiss in the crevice of Sherlock's neck. "I know."

Sherlock swallowed harshly.

And thus they tumbled into John's bed, a tangled mess of limbs and bedsheets.

With John on top and leading the way, their lips collided into a heated kiss, tongues dancing around each other and teeth clacking together. Sherlock's hands slithered around the back of John's neck as John's hands found their way underneath Sherlock's shirt, fingers slowly gliding up smooth bare skin.

When John tried to take a breath, Sherlock pressed their lips together again before John could even inhale, hands taking a firm hold around John's head. John in the meanwhile busied himself with unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, fingers fumbling around for the buttons desperately.

John lightly bit Sherlock's bottom lip, causing the violinist to gasp aloud and succumb to the pleasure building up within him. John could practically feel Sherlock shudder beneath him. When John tried to pull away and break the kiss, Sherlock refused, following John's movements so as to keep their lips touching at all times. Eventually John had to take Sherlock's face in his hands and push the virgin away, lightly laughing to himself. "Sherlock," he whispered, giving him a quick peck on the nose. "Sherlock, there's more to sex than just kissing." And then his face turned serious for a moment. "You do want that, don't you?" He asked, because John was the kind of man who refused to push himself onto any of his partners unless it was fully consensual. It just wasn't any fun unless everyone was enjoying themselves, after all.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed out, fingers frantically tangling into John's hair. "Yes John, I want to copulate with you."

John's response was to groan and drop his head to Sherlock's shoulder. "God Sherlock, keep talking like that and my erection will go away."

"Sorry," Sherlock apologized, running his hands up and down the back of John's neck.

While he was down there, John took the liberty to pull at Sherlock's shirt collar and expose more of the flesh of Sherlock's shoulder. John planted light kisses all over the skin before turning to repeat the actions to Sherlock's other side.

With Sherlock's shirt completely off, John gripped at thin hipbones and gently pressed his lips to Sherlock's flat stomach.

"John," Sherlock gasped out, eyes wide and locked on the scene before him. His fingers still tangled themselves into John's hair, stroking the short locks tenderly.

"Nobody's touched you like this," John whispered against the flesh before him, nuzzling his face into Sherlock's pelvis. "Nobody's kissed you here," and he kissed Sherlock's abdomen, right above where the waistline of his trousers sat.

"No," Sherlock agreed. "Nobody."

Perhaps it was a sick thrill John got, the thought of deflowering an otherwise oddly innocent virgin. Everything about Sherlock screamed virgin. His lack of ability to understand innuendos, his introverted personality, right down to the way he could hardly hold John's hand properly half the time. Virgins were special to society. Keep them innocent for as long as possible. Well, John thought to himself, Sherlock's innocence has gone on long enough.

John was quick to unzip Sherlock's trousers and slip them down Sherlock's long slender legs, tossing the unneeded material off the bed. He then pressed his face to Sherlock's lower abdomen again, just above the waistband of the violinist's pants. In a frustrated reaction, Sherlock rolled his hips up, fingernails practically digging into the back of John's neck-though it seemed John didn't mind.

In a flash, John was sitting up just long enough to remove his jumper-with Sherlock tugging at his sleeves impatiently. He began to descend upon Sherlock again, but the genius stopped him with a hand on his chest.

"No," Sherlock whispered hoarsely. "Stay there for a moment."

John complied and sat there, silently watching Sherlock's hands hesitantly slide across the bare skin of John's torso. He could see Sherlock's eyes wide open in awe and wonder, as if he had never seen a half-naked man before. He was like a curious child, curious and set on discovering everything he could about John's body. His mind, though, was that of an adult's, and John could practically feel Sherlock analyzing him from head to toe. He began to feel a bit self-conscious, actually, having those deep curious eyes burrowing holes into his flesh, and he wondered if Sherlock saw something- a freckle, a hair, -on John's body that John himself wouldn't have been able to see if he spent all day looking in a mirror.

He was happy to allow Sherlock to explore, however, and it did feel quite nice to have those long nimble fingers touching his skin-running over a nipple, caressing a rib. Hesitating over the obvious bullet wound upon his shoulder.

Eventually, though, even John became impatient and decided Sherlock had enough time to analyze, so he leaned forward to capture Sherlock's lips in another quick kiss. Sherlock exhaled quietly and John swallowed the breath like he was swallowing Sherlock's very essence.

Back down John went, sliding down Sherlock's nearly naked body painfully slow, making sure to touch every bit of skin he could possible fine. With another kiss to Sherlock's hipbone, John tugged at the pants before him, finally freeing Sherlock's most concealed part from its painful confines. Sherlock groaned in immediate response and shifted on the bed, looking for comfort.

Even before John had begun touching, Sherlock rolled his hips into the air as if the oxygen surrounding them could aide with his ridiculously hard erection. And when John finally did touch, military fingers sliding around the base of Sherlock's prick, Sherlock couldn't stop himself from straining out a small cry.

"John," Sherlock breathed as John began to move his hand experimentally. "John that feels…oh god."

"Jesus," John almost laughed. "I'm only touching you. You sound like you've never masturbated before."

"Not since I was a teenager," Sherlock admitted.

"Christ, really?" John was genuinely surprised, although he wasn't exactly sure why. Not masturbating did seem like a very Sherlock thing to do.

"It's tedious," Sherlock explained. "and unnecessary. Or so I've thought until now-oh, John do that again."

John let his lips curl into a smug little smirk as he jerked at Sherlock's firm cock. If it was one thing John was absolutely confident about, it was his ability to please in bed. He had never, of course, contemplated sex with a man, but in all honesty it was working out significantly well. Sherlock was less demanding, perfectly content with whatever John had to offer-though that could just be the virgin in him-and John could apply to Sherlock the same techniques he used on himself. All in all, it was a win-win situation.

When John bowed his head down to Sherlock's erection, however, Sherlock yanked at John's hair, pulling him back and halting him in his attempts to advance. Their eyes locked on one another, both half concerned and half consumed with lust.

Sherlock just stared at him for a while, his breathing less controlled than usual, before slowly parting his perfectly shaped lips. "John," he spoke softly, but with a tint of a warning attitude. He gently ran his fingers through the soft locks of John's hair. "John, I'm not a girl."

John let out a little snort. "I think I've noticed." But when Sherlock didn't seem very amused by John's humor, he rolled his eyes. "Look, I think I've had enough time to deal with any sort of sexuality crisis by now." And to shut him up, John gave Sherlock's erection a little squeeze.

After that, Sherlock was happy to drop conversation in favor of shutting his eyes and exhaling sharply. And when John's tongue touched just the tip of his cock, Sherlock's fingers gripping the back of John's head like he'd die if he let go.

John took Sherlock's cock in his hands and softly kissed the side of the sensitive flesh. "Beautiful," he mumbled, giving it an experimental lick just for the enjoyment of watching Sherlock struggle to control himself.

"Still not female," Sherlock felt the need to remind John. "There's no need to compliment my genitalia."

"Force of habit," was John's reply, jerking his hand wrapped around Sherlock's throbbing prick. He doubted he could stop the compliments, though. Sex, to John, was a confidence-booster. People liked being complimented, and what better place to compliment someone than in bed?

John opened his mouth wider than he had probably ever opened it before and cautiously swallowed down Sherlock as much as he possibly could and as slow as he possibly could. He reveled as Sherlock choked out another gasp and threw an arm across his face for a second before his eyes were open wide and locked onto John.

The taste of man was, of course, new to John. Slightly unpleasant, but the euphoric look in Sherlock's eyes made everything worth it. He slid his head back up to release some of the pressure in his throat before swallowing again, a bit deeper this time. Of course, being inexperienced at shoving long things down his throat, he was hardly able to get down half of Sherlock's cock, resorting to jerking off in his hand what he couldn't fit in his mouth. With his other hand, he firmly held down Sherlock's hips. It wouldn't be erotic at all to either of them if Sherlock were to sporadically jerk and make John vomit all over everything.

Sherlock was in heaven. There was little that could feel as good to a man as having a tight hot mouth around his cock, Sherlock soon discovered. The warmth transferred from John's mouth to Sherlock, shooting up his spine and warming his entire body. Searing pleasure rushed down his legs, making him curl his toes in the sweetest agony imaginable.

John could feel Sherlock squirm beneath him, trying desperately not to thrust up into John's mouth. Just the sight of a disheveled Sherlock struggling to even breathe regularly turned John on, heat rushing to his own neglected cock. He couldn't help but let out a muffle moan around Sherlock, the vibrations causing a new sensation that had Sherlock screaming out and clutching at John's hair desperately.

For a moment, John had to slide Sherlock out of his mouth to catch a long needed breath. To compensate, he jerked at Sherlock's prick faster than ever before. With his mouth off, he allowed Sherlock to squirm at free will, skinny hips bucking up to produce the maximum amount of friction possible.

Soon, John was back at planting soft kisses at Sherlock's thin hipbones, lips pressing against his pelvis over and over.

"For God's sake," Sherlock breathed out, no longer able to tolerate the teasing. He shifted his body on the bed again in a desperate attempt to get John back to doing what he was doing.

Satisfied that he had been able to hook Sherlock into begging for more, John let his lips curl into a devious grin. "Patience," he whispered against Sherlock's skin, giving Sherlock's hips one last kiss before descending back down on his cock.

Eventually, it got to a point where Sherlock felt the need to throw an arm over his face to keep himself in control. Just the sight of John's head bobbing up and down between his thighs could set Sherlock off.

"John," he warned, perhaps more out of breath than he had been in a long, long while. He could feel the heated pleasure continuously building up within him, threatening to burst at any given second.

John ignored the initial warning, instead continuing with his ministrations. By this point he had succeeded in swallowing down a little more than half of Sherlock's shaft, and perhaps he could be little proud about that.

"John!" Sherlock gasped out again, throwing his eyes wide open. "John, oh god." He witnessed his threatening erection slide between John's lips over and over and nearly collapsed right then and there. He exhaled sharply, beginning to panic. "John, I need to ejaculate."

With that being said, John gave Sherlock one last suck before sliding the pulsating prick out of his mouth. "And I need to tape your mouth shut next time we do this," John maybe half-joked, keeping one hand on the cock before him and jerking furiously. "You say the most unsexy things in bed."

Sherlock didn't even have time to retaliate before his imminent orgasm hit. Even biting his tongue couldn't stop him from crying out, hot thick ropes of semen erupting from the tip of his cock, gravity splattering them across Sherlock's own lower abdomen. He threw his head back and shut his eyes painfully tight. John kept his hand on Sherlock, gently stroking him through his orgasm until there was no more fluid to leak and his erection began to soften exponentially.

Immediately afterwards, John climbed back on top of Sherlock and crashed their lips together again. With Sherlock still shaking, John coaxed him through the aftershocks of the greatest orgasm of his life, keeping a hand on Sherlock's chest and feeling it rise and fall rapidly with every uneven breath.

His lower body still jerking in the midst of pleasure, Sherlock snaked an arm around John's back to press their naked torsos tightly together as much as possible. They kissed furiously for a long time, tongues tasting the inside of one another's mouths, breathing each other's air.

When they broke for air, their eyes locked and John reached out to fix a disheveled curl on Sherlock's messed up mop of hair. "You," he exhaled harshly, curling the lock of dark brown hair around his finger, "are perhaps just as gorgeous when you cum as you are when you play that violin."

Sherlock's response was to not-so-discretely slide his hands down John's spine, fingers slipping into the elastic waistband of John's pants. He shifted his momentum so he could pull himself up, sitting John on his lap and pressing their lips together again as his hands slid further down John's pants to gently squeeze the flesh of his bottom. John, on instinct, ground his hips against Sherlock to relieve some of the pressure on his aching cock.

"You wanna give it a go?" John asked, arms wrapping around Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock gave the side of John's neck a small kiss before growling into John's ear, "take off your trousers."

John grinned. Oh, this was so much better than listening to Sherlock play the same piece of music over and over for hours on end.


	11. Chapter 11

The day of the competition was hectic. Despite John trying his hardest to coax Sherlock to sleep the night before, the violinist had stayed up all night hammering on that damn instrument as if he were determined not to let John sleep a wink either. Thus, in the morning, John had to gulp down two large cups of the most caffeinated coffee available just to keep his heavy eyes open long enough to catch a cab.

"John."

"Mmm?"

"John, you're crushing my arm. I kind of need it today."

John's response was to nuzzle his head further against Sherlock's shoulder and hiss out "oh bugger off." If he didn't catch at least two minutes of sleep in the cab he'd start screaming and possibly clawing his eyes out.

When they stopped to pick up Molly, the girl stumbled out of her flat and proceeded to spill all her music onto the cold London pavement.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Sherlock cried out in exasperation.

John harshly elbowed Sherlock in the ribs and gave him a mean glare. "I swear to god," he warned, "if you make this experience horrible for her I will drown you in the bathtub and hang your scalp on a hat rack." And with that being said, he got out of the cab and rushed over to Molly.

There, he knelt down to aide her in picking up her music. When he handed her a stack, she took it gratefully and smiled at him. "Oh, thank you. I'm so sorry. I was just excited, is all."

John returned her smile and took her hand in his to help her stand back up. "It's fine. We're still early. You're quite gorgeous this morning."

Molly couldn't hide the blush creeping over her face. Embarrassed, she awkwardly bit her lip and giggled a little bit. "Thank you," she said in a small voice, instinctly smoothing out the front of the simple black dress she had on. This, of course, being her first (and probably only) violin competition, meant she hadn't known the appropriate attire. Being as Sherlock would be the main target, she didn't want to draw too much attention to herself by wearing some sort of bright color. Her dress was perhaps a bit casual for the event, but with her hair pinned back with a silver barrette and a thin silver necklace, she hoped it would be enough to perhaps formalize the attire enough.

Almost immediately after piling into the cab, however, Sherlock let out a sigh. "Molly, please, this is an international competition, not a primary school band concert."

Just a little bit offended, Molly frowned. "I'm…sorry. I could go back and change-,"

"No," John interrupted. "She's fine. It's a perfect outfit, can we please just _go_."

And so they did. Engaging in the most awkward of small talk.

"So…big day," John observed.

"Indeed." Molly looked down at her lap, twiddling her fingers together nervously.

"Nervous?"

"Quite."

To which Sherlock scoffed and whispered under his breath "novice," which earned him another painful jab in the ribs courtesy of John's elbow.

"Sherlock, for god's sake, get that confounded violin out of my pelvis. I told you to put that thing in the trunk!"

"I will do no such thing! I am not leaving my instrument out of my sight for one moment!"

John growled internally.

"So, how long have you two been…" Molly started a little while later once the quiet became unbearable, perhaps not sure of how to phrase the question.

"Since summer," John replied.

"Ah," Molly nodded. "I see."

"Yep."

"Indeed."

"Yeah."

"Okay."

And Sherlock rolled his eyes, very much wishing the two of them would just shut up.

All three of them let out the biggest sigh of relief when the cab finally pulled up in front of the designated hotel. None of them had ever scurried out of a vehicle faster than they had at that moment. John paid the driver, throwing in an extra couple of pounds as tip for 'putting up with the peanut gallery,' as he described to the driver.

They could already hear sounds echoing from the hotel before they even opened the door. When they did, they were greeted by a tornado of chaos. John had never seen so many violinist - or violins- in his life. Violinists of all sorts of cultures cluttered the halls, scratching away at their instruments, some of them obviously not yet tuned to perfection.

Sherlock practically had to yell over the receptionist to check in and gathered his numbered badge.

"Thank you," he said to the receptionist, gratefully taking his badge from her fingers. "Oh, and I'd suggest confronting your husband tonight. He's lying about the extra hours at work and I believe a rather high end prostitute is to blame."

After seeing the appalled shock on the woman's face, John roughly grabbed Sherlock by the arm and dragged him away from the desk. "Jesus Christ Sherlock, you need to stop ruining people's relationships!"

"I'm only helping them," Sherlock tried to defend himself.

"No, you're just trying to show off. They don't need any help. Sometimes it's better to live in ignorance." John took the badge from Sherlock's fingers and slipped a hand into the inside of Sherlock's suit jacket, stabbing the badge into the expensive fabric.

"That's the most preposterous thing I've ever heard of."

"Yeah well, humans are preposterous so get over it," John said forcefully, fastening the badge securely against Sherlock's suit and giving his chest a reassured pat. "Are you going to practice?"

"In this atmosphere?" Sherlock scoffed. "I should think not."

John rolled his eyes in annoyance. "My god, you are a handful today." He placed a hand on the back of Sherlock's shoulder and guided him through the ocean of violinists to where Molly was standing small and out of place and very so wishing she had chosen a different outfit.

The trio united, John slid his sleeve up to check his watch. "Right, okay. Sherlock, you've got about another two hours to kill before you get to go into the practice room, and I will _not_ stand here and listen to you deduce everyone's financial problems, so what do you propose we do?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You wouldn't happen to have brought Cluedo, would you?" he asked in the most sarcastic tone imaginable.

John threw his hands up in the air, quite giving up. "You are absolutely impossible."

* * *

They ended up sitting in silence with their backs against the wall, eyes straight ahead and not a smile on any of their faces. Once in a while, someone walked up to Sherlock and asked for an autograph, which Sherlock signed reluctantly-only because John gives him a threatening glance if he doesn't.

Eventually, John spoke up. "This is terrible. And you do this every year?"

"Yes," Sherlock admitted. "Only, I'm usually alone."

John raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm sorry, is my presence making you miserable?"

"No," Sherlock insisted. "No, in fact I'm…rather glad you're here."

At that, John couldn't help but flash a smile. "Really?"

"Absolutely," Sherlock agreed. "I never figured out how to pin these stupid badges on."

John's smile instantly turned to a frown and he punched Sherlock in the shoulder. "Oh, you insufferable little bastard. I hope your A string breaks in the middle of your performance."

Sitting beside John, Molly smiled at the couple. This, was what Molly believed, was how a relationship should go. Being able to joke around with one another and drive each other crazy while knowing in your heart you would never leave. John and Sherlock's polar opposite personalities seemed to compliment each other in a way that really shouldn't work, but did anyways. Molly wanted a relationship like that.

A loud voice suddenly called out for Sherlock Holmes and accompanist to please make their way towards the practice room, thank you.

The trio stood up practically simultaneously and hurried down the hallway.

The closer they got to the practice room, the more clearly the sound of a violin being played stood out. John could see Sherlock's face grow more and more tense with every step, as if the music being played physically pained him.

Whoever was in the practice room was quite excellent. John couldn't hear a single fumble in the notes or an out of tune squeak. He could practically feel the emotion the violinist had in the way the sound emitted from his instrument. A magic spell, entrancing John to forget about anything happening, to erase his surrounding until he was walking on nothing and seeing nothing and hearing nothing but harsh, rapid-fire notes. This music was not a lullaby by any means. The tone was burning fire, like the violinist had some sort of grudge-an almost murderous intent, perhaps planning on killing the audience with the power and might of his notes. Sherlock's piece of music was also powerful and fiery, but it made John want to go out and run a marathon whereas this song made him want to turn around and punch the first person he saw in the face.

The song ended abruptly and as soon as the trio approached the entrance to the room, the door swung open. Immediately, Sherlock froze in his tracks and John could practically feel the genius's breath hitch when he laid his eyes on the occupant of the room.

The man was tall and slim like Sherlock, but his aurora gave out a different feeling to John. Whereas Sherlock came across as calculating and intimidating, this man, with short black hair slicked back and just the hint of stubble on his upper lip, was cold and menacing. If John had met him on the streets, he would have thought him to be a sexual predator or a serial murderer.

"Sherlock," the man greeted sarcastically, flashing the fakest grin John had ever seen. He held out a mocking hand to Sherlock to shake, but when Sherlock stood unmoving, he dropped his hand back down to his side.

Molly leaned over to whisper into John's ear "is that Moriarty?"

John shrugged at her and whispered back, "dunno, must be. Certainly looks like a Moriarty."

"Tzigane," Sherlock scoffed at the man. "Elementary, as always."

The man John could bet a hundred quid was Moriarty cocked his head to the side. "And who is this, your new accompanist?" When Sherlock stiffened, Moriarty chuckled to himself. "Oh, younger Holmes, you are so predictable. Never able to hold down an accompanist. Look at that poor thing, she'll be gone in an hour. Perhaps you should pick someone with a more…" he glanced at John deliberately as he continued "…military finesse." That being said, he stepped out of the door and called out to his accompanist, "Sebastian, hurry up, we'll be late."

Behind him emerged a tall blonde man, the most stereotypical soldier-esque John had ever seen-and he had seen a lot of soldiers. "Break a leg," Moriarty smirked, placing a playful hand on Sherlock's shoulder that Sherlock quickly jerked away.

"Planning on seducing the judges again this year?" Sherlock mocked.

Moriarty let out a small laugh. "Oh, Sherlock dear, you know daddy always plays fair. There's no need for jealousy."

John had never seen such an angry expression flash over Sherlock's face.

It was only when Moriarty and his partner were out of vision's sight that the tension disappeared and John felt like he could finally breathe properly again. The three of them entered the practice room, which was empty save for a large grand piano in one corner and a single music stand in the center of the room-just in case some poor fellow hadn't yet memorized his piece.

Sherlock and Molly took their respective positions and John leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as Sherlock finally removed his instrument from its confines.

John could have sworn it took them a good ten minutes to tune that damn violin to perfection.

Practice went as it always had.

Halfway through the piece, Sherlock halted his playing and mimicked the motion of slamming his violin to the ground-which he would of course never do. "Dammit, Molly!"

"I'm sorry!" Molly squeaked, shrinking down on the piano seat.

"Hey!" John cut in, shooting Sherlock a warning if-you-make-her-cry-I-swear-you're-sleeping-in-your-own-room-tonight glance. "There isn't any time for this. Just run it straight through once or twice and go with it, okay?"

Sherlock pouted like a child, but obeyed.

Once their time in the practice room was up, Molly collected her music and John took up Sherlock's empty violin case. The next contestant was standing outside the door, a thin Russian girl-five kids and twice divorced, most recently from an abusive relationship, still recovering from the flu and a fight with her alcoholic father- who's first reaction was to gape her mouth wide open and cry out "Sherlock Holmes!" A fan, of course.

The words just made Sherlock walk away faster.

And so they made their way towards the hotel auditorium, John spouting inspirational quotes and encouragements the entire time.

Just outside the backstage entrance, the end of Moriarty's Tzigane could be clearly heard, playing perhaps better than he had in the practice room.

Sherlock took a deep breath and plucked once at his violin. Just making sure it was still tuned to perfection.

John fussed over the genius, straightening his badge, smoothing out his tie, plucking off a piece of fuzz from the sleeve, all while reassuring him. "You'll do fine. You've got this. Just go out there and play, all right? I'm so proud of you."

"John," Sherlock interrupted him. "Stop. You sound like my mum."

The doors opened, indicating that it was Sherlock's turn to walk up onto the stage. John nodded. "All right. Just, good luck okay?" And he tilted his head up to plant a firm kiss to Sherlock's lips, not exactly worried about anyone who might have seen them. "Get out there," he commanded, turning Sherlock around and practically shoving him through the entrance. Molly followed suite and shook hands with John one last time. "Good luck," John mouthed, though his voice stayed silent.

Molly flashed a smile and with that, spun around on her heels and ran off to join Sherlock.

John made his way around to the front entrance of the auditorium to take his seat in the audience. He sat at a reasonable distance away, so he didn't disturb the other audience members but that he could still have a clear view of the stage, where an announcer stood with a piece of paper in one hand and a microphone in the other.

The announcer cleared her throat. "Now, we have the English Sherlock Holmes, performing Paganini's Caprice No. 24."

The audience began to clap as Sherlock made his way onto the stage with Molly. They were quite a duo, John thought proudly to himself. Both clad in black that complimented their pale skin, their outfits tight and form fitting around their tall, slim bodies. They could be siblings, now that John really thought about it.

The clapping died down.

Once the room was completely silent, Sherlock tucked his instrument under his chin, raised his bow, and struck the first note.


	12. Chapter 12

**I had a snow day today so you lucky bastards get a second chapter today**

* * *

Never before had John seen Sherlock perform. Well, not like this, anyways. Not live, here and in person, sitting in the audience where he could focus on nothing but the dark hired genius on stage. John had really only seen Sherlock perform from the back. In the orchestra, obviously, and even at home Sherlock tended to play facing the window with his back to John. Now, he was face to face with the violinist, and dear god was he gorgeous.

As his fingers slid gracefully across the thin violin strings, his eyebrows furrowed deeply. The pure, raw emotion emitting from his instrument was nearly overwhelming to John, who had never seen hair curls that bounced so furiously on top of someone's head. It was simply breathtaking, the way his entire body would move with the beat, like his music was encouraging to take off and dance all over the stage.

Behind him, Molly played just as furiously, her face constricted in the most concentration John had ever seen. Her fingers danced up and down the piano keys, pounding on the instrument with all her small might. She was so determined not to mess up-not to mess Sherlock up. But Sherlock trusted her, John knew. Sherlock would not have allowed her to come this far if he didn't. He chose her. He chose her because he knew she would help him win.

John couldn't see the judges' faces, but at the very least nobody was shaking their head or nodding off to sleep. How could they? This was Sherlock Holmes, after all. By now he was practically expected to at least place in the top five.

John simply could not take his eyes away from Sherlock. He was just captivated, mesmerized by the majesty of the music the genius could create. This was what a musician looked like. No, this is what an angel looked like. If Sherlock had sprouted wings and ascended into heaven at that very moment, John wouldn't have been the least bit surprised.

Perfectly defined lips pressed firmly together, Sherlock's teeth probably grit behind them. His bow rapidly swept over the strings, his fingers moving quick and agile, never once faltering or stumbling over themselves. The way he was playing was practically inhuman. If John hadn't known any better, he could have guessed that the man on stage was actually a robot designed to play nothing but Paganini all day.

If John hadn't been fully in love with Sherlock, he certainly was now. It took all his willpower to not jump up and scream out "that's my boyfriend! We share the same bed!"

It did make John sit back for a moment and think. Sherlock's playing had some sort of euphoric spell. John had to realize that he was probably not the only one who had fallen in love with Sherlock's violin. He began to ponder how many girls went to sleep at night dreaming of Sherlock, wondering if those fingers were as good at touching skin as they were at touching bows-to which John could definitely attest to. How many hearts had Sherlock captured? A young violinist with a pretty face that could swoon a lady at the first note?

John was far from worried, though. Sherlock was not a romantic person despite the romance portrayed in his music. John had no doubt that Sherlock would remain loyal, mainly because John was the only person he had shown any sort of remote interest in pursuing romantically. Sherlock hardly made eye contact with anyone else, and John wasn't even sure the genius knew how to flirt properly.

The piece ended much too soon for John's liking. He would much rather have stayed there seated and listening to Sherlock play forever and ever. To make up for it, though, the ending was absolutely magnificent. When Sherlock got to the final variation, he practically abused his violin, tearing viciously at the strings as if he hated the damned instrument. Scales echoed loudly, bouncing off all walls of the auditorium, but still he missed not a single note, his playing still clear and articulate beyond comprehension.

The last note rang through John's ears long after Sherlock had dropped his instrument to his side. When the genius bowed, the audience began to clap, but John was already standing up and hurrying out the doors of the auditorium as fast as he possibly could.

He ran around to the backstage entrance where Sherlock and Molly had just entered the hall. Reunited again, John's first reaction was to throw his arms around Sherlock's neck, giving Sherlock a quick peck on the lips and a longer kiss on the cheek. "You were fantastic," he breathed, taking one hand to brush back a curl sticking to Sherlock's sweat-damp forehead.

John then turned to Molly and held his arms out with the intent to hug her as well, but she took a step back. "Don't," she warned him, a huge smile on her face nevertheless. "I'm all sweaty and gross. It's damn hot on that stage."

"You were wonderful," John complimented her. "Both of you." With that, he went to give Sherlock another hug, but the violinist held a hand out in protest.

Sherlock did not look pleased in the slightest. John furrowed his eyebrows curiously. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock only shook his head and began walking, John and Molly hurrying to catch up to him.

"Sherlock-," John began.

"Too fast," Sherlock suddenly said. "The ending was sped up."

Silence fell upon the three of them.

Then, Molly's small voice piped up. "I'm sorry."

To everyone's surprise, Sherlock shook his head. "No, no that was my fault. You…you did well catching up."

"I didn't notice it," John assured him. "I'm sure the judges wouldn't have either. It'll be fine. Nobody would care."

But Sherlock only shook his head again.

* * *

The trio sat in silence again at the edge of the hall. Sherlock had his knees drawn into his chest, eyes staring forward blankly as if the soul had been ripped from his body. John had an arm around Sherlock, stroking the violinist's back reassuringly the way a parent might do to a child who had just failed a test they had worked so hard to study for.

Any stranger could look at the three of them and think that they had just lost everything.

"How much longer until they announce the winner?" Molly asked quietly.

John paused rubbing Sherlock's back to check his watch. "A few hours." Then he turned his head to Sherlock. "Do you want something to eat?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly, a typical answer.

John frowned. "Well, I for one am starving. Molly?"

"Absolutely ravenous. I think there's a sandwich shop down the street. Would you like me to get you anything?"

John nodded. "Uh, yeah, just a cold turkey with lettuce and a coke. Sherlock, don't you want anything?"

Sherlock only shook his head.

"Crisps?"

No.

"How about a drink?"

There was a pause, and then Sherlock nodded once.

John turned to Molly, who had stood up. "Just get him a bottle of water. He's not in the mood for talking."

"I can do that," Molly replied.

When she left, John returned to rubbing his hand in circles around Sherlock's back. "You did fine," he assured him once again.

Sherlock's response was to rest his head on his knees.

"Hey," John called out. "Hey, look at me. You are a brilliant violinist and I'll still love you, trophy or not."

His pep talk did little to break Sherlock from his trance.

John sighed out in exasperation. "You're acting like a spoiled child."

"I am a spoiled child," Sherlock retaliated, perhaps even pouting a bit.

"Oh god," John mumbled. "No, no more sulking. I think I like you better when you insult me"

"I thought you'd always love me."

"Christ," John grumbled to himself, slapping his own face with his free hand. "Forget it. Forget everything I said."

They both shut up for a while.

Around them, the hustle and bustle never seemed to die down. Violinists rushed around, running across the hallways, frantically tuning their instruments, some of them were even crying after a bad performance. John and Sherlock were background characters, unnoticed as people walked past them. Beside him, Sherlock kept his violin safe and locked up.

Eventually, Sherlock spoke again. "John?"

"Mmm?"

There was a slight pause. "I'm sorry. For being a brat."

John sighed again and rubbed Sherlock's shoulder firmly. "No, it's fine. You're upset. Understandable."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"I don't know. You better appreciate it-I don't thank people often."

John couldn't help but chuckle a little bit. "I'll savor the words forever."

At that point, Molly came back into view, two plastic bags over her arms. When she reached the two of them, she sat back down next to John with her back against the wall. She opened the bags, taking out wrapped sandwiches and bottled fizzy drinks-and water for Sherlock.

John took his sandwich gratefully and immediately unwrapped it. When he handed the water bottle to Sherlock, the genius took it but did not take a sip.

About halfway through his sandwich, John held it up to Sherlock. "Here, take a bite."

Sherlock's reaction was to crinkle his nose as if the meal was repulsive.

"Oh come on," John started. "Just a bite. If you don't eat now, I'm force feeding you tofu when we get home."

John had never seen someone snatch up a sandwich faster in his life.

Just as Sherlock had taken a good-sized bite from the sandwich and given it back to John, it was announced that the judges had made their final decisions.

"Come on," John encouraged Sherlock, taking his hands and helping him to his feet. Unfinished meals were dumped in the bins and they made their way back to the auditorium.

"You'll do fine," John whispered again, keeping one supportive hand on Sherlock's back at all times.

"If anything, they can't deny you've got talent," Molly tried to help.

They seated themselves in the auditorium along with the many other contestants.

"All awards can be either picked up during the after party or mailed directly to your homes," the announcer informed the group.

Honorable mentions were announced first. Those poor souls that tried their best but could not yet place among the top twenty. To anybody who knew any better, it was actually a rather humiliating award, much like a participant ribbon was in a science fair. A "good job trying, better luck next time" award.

Afterwards, they started counting backwards from twentieth place. John didn't even listen to the first half of names mentioned-Sherlock would at least be in the top five. Around him, people had a varied assort of reactions. Some contestants cried when they heard their names called, believing they had done so much better than the judges obviously though. Some contestants jumped up and down with joy, earning a higher spot than they had originally hoped. Competitions were truly amazing. One could pick out the overly-confident and the under-confident all at the same time.

When Sherlock's name wasn't announced as fifth or fourth, John couldn't help but smirk a little bit.

A rather petite Asian woman breaks down into tears as her name is called for third place.

"And second place goes to…Jim Moriarty."

At the back of the auditorium, the sound of a bin being kicked over and a "fuck!" resonated throughout the audience.

Even before first place is announced, Molly is gripping around Sherlock's upper arm in excitement. John sits back, suppressing his desire to pounce at Sherlock, grins with the smuggest, biggest smile on his face as "and the international violin champion is, once again, Sherlock Holmes," is announced across the auditorium.

Molly finally lets out a scream and clutches at Sherlock's arm tightly, standing up and pulling the genius up with her. John throws himself at Sherlock, showering the man with praise and hugs galore.

"You did it, you did it!"

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm so proud!"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock says, quite annoyed. "Can we go home now?"

The other two stare blankly at him for a moment. "Home?" Molly questions. "What about the after party?"

Sherlock twists his face in discuss. "And waste the night away engaging in idle chatter with dull people? I never go to those things unless I'm performing in them."

"What about the award?"

"By now they know to just send it to my family home. My brother will take care of it." When Sherlock catches the disappointed expression on Molly's face, however, he rolls his eyes. "Of course, you can stay if you'd like. I could call my brother and have him arrange for someone to take you home afterwards."

Molly smiled a bit. "Well, I mean…I've never gone to a fancy party before…I suppose it could be nice. I could speak on your behalf. "

"There will be agents there," Sherlock explained. "Some might even offer you a job."

"As a pianist?" Molly gasped, as if she were absolutely shocked.

"No, as a conservatory janitor," Sherlock answered sarcastically.

"Hey, hey," John warned, lightly elbowing Sherlock in the side. To Molly, he said "this could be your debut, you know. Get out that crappy LSO secretary job and become someone."

Molly looked as if she were about to burst into tears. She lounged herself at John, wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing him into a tight hug. "Oh, I don't know how to thank you for all this."

John gave her a reassuring pat on the back. "It was all Sherlock's doing, really."

Molly retreated and beamed up at Sherlock. When Sherlock raised his palm for her, she took it and they shook firm hands together. "You…" Sherlock started, before clearing his throat. "are an excellent accompanist, besides your tendency to cry much too often."

Molly blinked a few times. "Oh, uh…thank you?" But, knowing that could be the closest thing Sherlock could get to a compliment, she was very thankful indeed.

They parted ways after that.

Of course, on the way out the door, John was faced with more publicity than he had ever seen in his life. As the two of them pushed through the crowd, newscasters and paparazzi threw microphones and questions in their way.

"How do you feel about beating Moriarty?"

"Are you still as excited about this award as you were the first time?"

"Where will you be going next?"

"How about another world tour? Spain loves you."

"And who are _you_?"

Taken aback by the question obviously meant for John, the clarinetist stumbled a little bit.

"You can answer, you know," Sherlock leaned over to whisper in his ear.

John stuttered, being unable to focus with all the bright camera lights flashing before his eyes. "I'm…uh, John Watson."

"Are you a violinist, too? Were you a contestant?"

"What?" John answered. "No. No, I'm, um, I'm a clarinetist. Of the LSO."

"And how do you know Sherlock Holmes?"

At that point, a cab had pulled up and Sherlock pushed John forward into the vehicle as quickly as possible before John could answer.

"Have you known Sherlock for long?"

"What is your relationship with Mr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock, you're young and handsome, have you found a girl to settle with?"

"We heard you turned down performing at the prime minister's birthday celebration, is this true?"

And with that, Sherlock had scurried into the cab beside John, shut the door, and practically yelled at the driver to take off as quickly as possible.

Safe within the moving vehicle, John takes Sherlock's hand in his and simple sits there, quietly interlacing their fingers. "I knew you could do it," he whispered softly, stroking gently at Sherlock's knuckles. "You shouldn't have doubted yourself."

"Oh, I didn't doubt it," Sherlock spoke up, his face completely expressionless.

"What?" John asked, curious. "You were upset. I thought you were going to start crying."

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course my performance was at least good enough to win. I might have sped up the ending a bit, but Moriarty was much too slow throughout the whole piece. The Tzigane is not his expertise and it was his mistake to even try it."

"Well then why did you…" John shook his head in wonder. "Why were you so upset?"

Sherlock sighed and looked at him longingly. "Oh, John. Even when you know you've done well enough, doesn't it still upset you when you make the most trivial of errors?"

John blinked a bit, and nodded. "Well…yes. I suppose."

"So you understand."

"I understand you're a cruel, bloody wanker."

"Oh, yes John, talk dirty to me," Sherlock moans out loud, making sure the driver can hear every word.

"I'm going to kill you when we get home," John hisses in Sherlock's ear, gripping Sherlock's hand painfully tight.

* * *

John never actually gets to uphold his promise to kill Sherlock.

The moment they get back to the flat, Sherlock is pressed flat against the wall, his head snapping back painfully as their lips collide in a frantic congratulatory kiss.

John waste no time in stripping Sherlock of his coat, practically yanking his arms out of the sleeves and tossing the heavy outerwear to the floor. In return, Sherlock tugs at John's thick jumper impatiently, pulling it further and further up until they have to break their kiss to get the damned thing off. Like magnets, their lips are instantly joined together again as John pressed a knee between Sherlock's thighs, hands gripping firmly around thin hipbones as Sherlock pulls at the back of John's neck, fingers sliding up through his hair and back down his neck to push their heads closer together.

"You," John gasps out against Sherlock's lips before kissing him once more. "Are," another kiss, gentling tugging his teeth at Sherlock's bottom lip. "Amazing."

Sherlock's silent response is to shove his tongue into John's throat and grind his hips up against John's knee, a move that John seems to quite encourage.

"John," Sherlock breaths out, breaking the kiss to inhale sharply. "We're not going to make it to the bedroom."

John fumbles around with the zipper of Sherlock's slick black slacks. "With you in that damn suit, we sure as hell aren't going to make it to the bedroom."

Amazingly enough though, they do. Awkward steps, limbs still tangled as they stumble across the floor, they eventually make it to bed, tumbling down onto the sheets and ripping at each other's clothes like a pair of hungry wild beasts.

"_Oh god, John." _

"_Sherlock,"_

"_Harder, oh god please, harder. Fuck." _

"_Dammit, when did you learn to speak like that?"_

"_John, please,"_

"_What is it you want?"_

"_You."_

Halfway through the night, with John's arm slung across Sherlock's naked chest, Sherlock's phone beeped. Careful not to disturb the sleeping clarinetist, Sherlock reached over for the electronic to reveal a text message.

_Congratulations, little brother. Now, I have a job for you. An offer you simply cannot resist._

_-MH_

* * *

When John awoke, Sherlock was gone-not unusual. He slipped out of bed and searched for some comfortable clothing to wear.

He was in the middle of zipping up a pair of trousers when Sherlock showed up in the doorway, his face completely expressionless-again, not unusual.

"What's up?" John asked, buttoning up the trousers.

"John," Sherlock started, starting with his serious tone. Uh-oh. "Maybe you should take a seat."

"What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip for a moment.

"Seriously, Sherlock, you'll scare me."

"John," Sherlock repeated, sticking his hands in his pockets like he's almost nervous or something. "I'm leaving."

Shocked, John finally took up Sherlock's suggestion and sat himself down at the edge of the bed, still completely shirtless. His eyes were wide as he started up at the violinist. "What…what do you mean?"

"I'm going to Vienna," Sherlock explained. He hesitated for a moment before taking a seat on the bed beside John. He reached out for John's hands, covering them with his own. "It's a rare opportunity. I can't turn it down."

"What…" John began to breathe uneasily. "When…when do you leave?"

"Tomorrow morning."

John exhaled sharply and nodded quickly. "And…and, when will you be back? How long is this going to last? Are you coming straight home afterwards?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admits, tightening his grasp on John's hands reassuringly. "I don't know, John."

At that, John slipped his hands away from Sherlock's in favor of running his fingers through his short military hair. "Oh god," he sighed in frustration, rubbing his palms against his temples.

"John-,"

"No," John cuts him off, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. "No, don't. Don't apologize. Don't. Say. Anything." He takes another deep breath. "I…I know. I understand. It's your career. World champion violinists don't just stay in London all their lives. I know, I have to share you with the rest of the world."

"No you don't," Sherlock objects, taking John's face in his hands so that their eyes can make contact with each other. "You're not sharing me with anyone. I'm just…performing. That's all."

"I'm happy for you," it almost pains John to get out. "Vienna. Wow. That's where all the stars go. It's…good, that you were offered a concert there. Really good. I'm proud."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and leaned forward to press his forehead against John's. "I'm upset, too." He sighs deeply as John slides his hands up to cover Sherlock's. "I don't want to leave you either. I've…had the best moments of my dull life with you, John Watson. I'm afraid I've rather fallen deeply in love with you."

And-oh god-John had to hold back tears.

Just then, Sherlock stiffened. He moved his head back to stare John straight in the face, his hand still cupping John's jaw. "John," he cried out as if he had just discovered a new element. "Come with me."

At that, John did start crying. He bowed his head and half-laughed as he shook his head regretfully. "I've got the orchestra, remember? They'll kick me out forever."

Oh, right. His plan shattered, Sherlock leaned forward to kiss the top of John's head firmly. His hands leave John's face in favor of wrapping around John's back instead, pulling the devastated clarinetist into a tight, loving hug. He rocked them both together side to side gently, as if it was going to make everything all better.

"I'll miss you," Sherlock whispered, planting kisses into John's hair over and over again.

John buried his face into the side of Sherlock's neck, his fists clenched around the material at the back of Sherlock's shirt.

"Every minute of every hour," Sherlock continued, nuzzling the side of his face against the top of John's head. "and I'll dream of you every night."

At that, John couldn't help but let out a chocked laugh. "Now you sound like a stalker."

Sherlock laughed back and tightened his hold around John.

They threw themselves against each other and succumbed to nothing short of the best sex of their lives that night. John could have sworn he had never seen Sherlock so tender with his touch, so passionate with his desire. Not a word was spoken, save for the occasional outcry of "faster" or "oh, god."

And when John awoke the next morning, he found himself completely alone.


	13. Chapter 13

**next chapter will be the last**

**whooooooooo**

* * *

Seven months.

"_John, please refrain from texting me whilst I am gone."_

"_You're fucking joking, right?"_

"_It will only make me miss you all the more, to the point where I might have to come home early, which would benefit neither of us seeing as my brother would have my head nailed to his wall."_

"…_I understand." _

"_Are you upset with me?"_

"_Dammit, how many times do we have to go over this? No, I'm not upset. I'm not fucking upset. It's your job. I'm not upset. Fuck."_

Seven months of coming home to an empty flat. More than half an entire year.

In some aspects, the solitude was refreshing. There was no sleepy violinist for John to wake up in the morning. There was no one else to make breakfast for, and only one plate to wash afterwards. There was no one to sit there during rehearsals and make the flutists cry. There were no strange smelling chemicals in his room or scalps in the fridge, nor were there any loose violin sheets littering John's floor. There was no terribly painful screech to wake up to or fall asleep to.

Of course, there was also no one to talk to. Oh sure, John could hang out with his friends more, but at the end of the day he came home to silence and slept in silence. John had no one to accompany him on the way to rehearsal. There was no one to keep the trumpet players straight, no one to keep John warm at night, and perhaps most of all, there was no sweet song to resonate throughout the flat at random points in the day.

Oh, sure John got along fine. He was a man of military stature, after all. It's not like he couldn't function properly because his boyfriend was off fiddling. He enjoyed going to the bar with his mates and kept up his clarinet work like nothing had ever happen. He laughed and had fun just the same as any other man liked to do.

John kept faithful. Not even once did he ever let his gaze wander to a pretty young girl at the bar and even contemplate taking her home. Not even at his most sexually frustrated did he ever even attempt to flirt with the waitress. The days of John Three-Continents Watson were over the day Sherlock Holmes stepped through the doorway of his flat. If John was sexually repressed, which he occasionally was, he sought relief by his own hand. By no means was it ever truly satisfying, but at desperate times, it was enough.

Molly came over John's flat one day to watch Sherlock's concert.

They ordered take away and ate together as friends often do, engaging in idle chatter. By this time Molly had since left the orchestra in favor of taking up an offer at a local musical theater. It wasn't the classiest job a pianist could have, but it was a large step for Molly. "Broadway," she told John. "I want to play for Broadway."

"I have faith in you," John encouraged her. "Maybe Sherlock and I will fly over to America to watch you play."

At that, Molly blushed. "Oh no, please don't feel obligated."

"Not at all!" John assured her. "It's more for me than for Sherlock, I suppose. He doesn't care too much for musicals. I, on the other hand, adore them, and of all the countries I've been to, I regret to say America has never been one of them."

"Well then," Molly smiled. "Perhaps some day."

And then the face of Sherlock Holmes appeared on the television's screen.

John could have sworn his heart skipped a beat.

It was always amazing to John, even after all this time, how famous Sherlock actually was. There he was, in Vienna, the heart of the musical world, on televisions all across the globe. John wondered how many would see him tonight. The crowd in the city must be immense. How many others would situate themselves around the telly tonight with the same intent as John and Molly? Hundreds? Thousands? They would all see a brilliant violinist stand up and grace the world with the angelic sounds concocted from within his instrument. They would all see Sherlock, and yet none of them would see him like John would. None of them knew how sweet Sherlock could be behind that stoic composure. How tender his touch was on another person's skin. How soft his eyes were in the middle of the night.

"He's so handsome," Molly sighed, and John had to remember he had company over. Indeed, Sherlock was handsome. He looked beautiful even in T-shirts and bathrobes with his unruly bed hair and bags under his eyes, but nothing could ever compare to the beauty that glowed when he was dressed in a slick black suit and his dark curly hair was neatly combed to the side. The waistcoat hugged his middle, accentuating the thinness of his lean frame in ways that John considered lewd despite the fact that he was still fully clothed.

When Sherlock began to play, John slowly began to melt. Bony fingers grazing across the strings, everything Sherlock was born to do. There was little John enjoyed more than watching Sherlock's expressions change as he played, probably because Sherlock was so expressionless to begin with. He hardly smiled or laughed, frowned or cried, his cheeks never got red with anger or embarrassment, and he with a violin tucked underneath his chin John could read the intensity on Sherlock's face. His frank adoration for the instrument, the concentration buried deep into his furrowed eyebrows, and yet the contradictory softness to the rest of his face. John wasn't sure how the mixed expressions worked, but they did, and Sherlock was the only one who could pull them off looking like a god.

Molly sighed next to him once again. "It's not the same as in person though, is it?"

John shook his head in agreement. It really wasn't. Having Sherlock so far away from him for so long was frustrating in ways John hadn't believed were even possible, and now seeing him there on screen, his face so close and yet so far, John wasn't able to reach out and touch him without a hard screen in-between them. He sort of did want to reach out and stroke the image of Sherlock's face, and he would've too if Molly hadn't been there.

* * *

Sherlock flew to Australia. He had a concert in Russia. He taught students in America and John rolled his eyes to himself as he read about it in the newspaper. "Star violinist Sherlock Holmes kicked out of Washington Conservatory after revealing shocking scandals of staff and threatening to skin incompetent students alive." Oh yes, that was his Sherlock all right.

Twice, John had tried to call. Despite what Sherlock had asked of him, the loneliness in his heart would not disappear and he found himself ringing up the number of Sherlock's mobile. He wasn't exactly surprised when nobody picked up, but he was still devastated. He wasn't exactly surprised either when he tried again a week later to find that Sherlock's mobile was no longer in service. And perhaps John was a bit cruel. John could just picture it- Sherlock sitting there letting his phone ring, refusing to pick up and, so as to not be tempted again, probably tossed the phone away. Maybe he threw it at the wall and shattered it into a million pieces. Mycroft would have had a fit. That thought almost made John smile for the first time in months.

John wasn't exactly sure when Sherlock would be coming back. They hadn't exactly planned a return date after all, since Sherlock's schedule was indubitably always flexible. That was the disadvantage of being famous to a great mind such as Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, being a precise man who hated the uncertain, having to confine himself to an uncertain schedule.

John did dread Sherlock coming home while John was still unprepared. Stumbling through the door while John was still in the shower, or at three am when John was asleep and disheveled. John wanted a proper welcome home. Nothing like a banner and a big neighborhood block party, but a proper welcome with John greeting him with open arms and a hot meal and a great big kiss on the lips. Oh, how he missed kissing Sherlock. Those soft, perfectly-shaped lips that John could almost imagine touching his own. For being a virgin in every sense of the word before they had met, Sherlock had excelled in the art of kissing. And…well, other things. Other things that John missed just as much as the kissing.

Seven months.

Seven months felt like seven years.


	14. Chapter 14

**last chapter yaaaaaaaay**

* * *

Sherlock didn't knock. Sherlock never knocked. Sherlock didn't knock before waltzing into the loo without bothering to check if John was in there or not. He didn't knock before entering the back room of the conservatory despite the completely rational possibility that the first chair violist might be snogging the brains out of a French horn player.

So he certainly did not knock the day he returned home from his work.

John was, as suspected, nowhere to be found. It was, after all, three in the afternoon and thus still at orchestra rehearsal.

_No, I want the later flight._

_SH_

_The later flight is inconvenient for everybody and I've already booked you this one. You are being childish. My life does not revolve around your boyfriend's rehearsal schedule. If you wish, there's always the possibility of doing something else around London before returning home._

_MH_

_He is not my boyfriend. Do not ever use such a vulgar word again. _

_SH_

_What then, pray tell, is he?_

_MH_

_Not my boyfriend._

_SH_

_You're insufferable. And you're getting on that flight._

_MH_

Of course Sherlock wasn't about to go hopping around London just to kill time. That would be twice as boring as lounging around doing absolutely nothing. And so Sherlock waltzed into John's room without permission and took a much needed nap, laying face down so that his nose was pressed into the sheets, reveling in the scent of John. He had changed shampoos no doubt, but that did little to affect that distinct John smell.

John returned home with a bag of groceries in one hand and his clarinet in the other. Balancing both in one arm, he fumbled around for his flat key in his pocket long enough to retrieve it and unlock the door. When he entered, the room was dark and usual. Without thinking much, he nonchalantly strolled into the kitchen to put away the groceries. For a moment, he peered into his refrigerator, contemplating whether to make a cold sandwich or a grilled cheese for his supper. Cold ham, he decided, and nodded to himself firmly before shutting the refrigerator door.

John would fix up his supper after he put his instrument away, then, and so he headed towards the bedroom without the least bit of suspicion.

The moment he flicked on the lights, however, a subtle movement under his covers alarmed John so much his clarinet came crashing onto the floor.

Immediately, a familiar voice spoke out, muffled by John's bedsheets. "I hope, for your sake, that wasn't your clarinet that just hit the floor. It's not good for the instrument, you know."

Still stunned as if he had been shot with a tranquilizer, John was physically unable to speak up. He watched the lanky figure slowly rise from his slumber, sitting up properly to stare John in the face and John could have sworn his heart skipped a beat. Or five.

"I was asleep," Sherlock noted, running a hand through his dark and curly hair. "You woke me up without knocking. How rude."

John lifted a shaky finger. "Y…You…you've certainly got balls, saying that after breaking into my flat and falling asleep in my bed!"

"Tsk," Sherlock said, swinging his ridiculously tall legs over the side of the bed so he could stand up properly. "I was under the impression that it was _our_ bed," he spoke as he took long strides towards John, backing the clarinetist into the wall and trapping him between Sherlock's arms. Sherlock bowed his head to meet John's ear, whispering softly, "unless you've already thrown me out?"

John nearly melted, forgetting exactly what Sherlock could do to him with that deep, sultry voice. And when he felt Sherlock's teeth just barely graze the tip of his ear, John shuddered and fell forward, his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock responded by wrapping his thin arms around John's back, John returning the favor by sliding his own hands up Sherlock's neck. "You're a bloody git, you know? A real proper arsehole." He inhaled sharply, for the first time in seven months able to breath in Sherlock's essence. And then he laughed. "And you're the rude one, coming in just like that and sleeping while I'm off toiling away at the conservatory. I was going to meet you. A real, proper greeting. Cook us both a hot meal."

"You could still do it," Sherlock offered, taking John's face into his hands. "Give me a real, proper greeting."

And that was the last straw before John was pulling the world class violinist down greedily for the best snog of their lifetimes.

Two minutes later, they were both in bed.

"Oh god I missed this," John gasped, arching his back as Sherlock slid bony, calloused hands under his jumper, exposing more and more flesh as he went.

"Mmm," Sherlock responded, nipping tenderly at the side of John's neck. "I missed _you_."

"Who the fuck turned you into a romantic over these past few months?"

"Well, I had a set of frustratingly dirty dreams that might have helped."

"Bloody…" John exhaled sharply when Sherlock's hands ran over a clearly aroused nipple. "So glad I wasn't the only one."

Sherlock sat John up just long enough to push the jumper over his head before slamming him back down onto the bed, attacking John's mouth with Sherlock's own in a heated kiss.

They snogged in silence for what seemed like forever, hips slowly moving against each other, hands fisted into each other's hair. John hadn't had a haircut since Sherlock left. Good, much easier to grab onto.

"How was Washington?" John asked, parting their lips so that they were still slightly touching.

"Don't mock me," Sherlock growled, gripping onto John's pelvis possessively.

John smirked and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's bare shoulder blades. "I wouldn't dare."

Sherlock hastily unbuttoned John's trousers, the thick material between them too much for the friction he had been craving for the past seven months. John didn't prohibit the action one bit. In fact, he encouraged the violinist, lifting his hips to allow Sherlock to unsheathe him. One indisputably and irrefutably naked, Sherlock wasted no time in grabbing at John's cock, eliciting quite a memorable noise from the back of John's throat. "You've been masturbating," Sherlock observed, planting a small kiss onto John's collarbone. "Frequently."

"And I'm guessing you haven't been," John pointed out, wiggling his hips a bit to get comfortable underneath his lover.

"Dull," Sherlock stated simply, jerking his hand a bit and reducing John to a hot, groaning mess.

It was quite a messy handjob. John was leaking fluid like crazy and the sounds of Sherlock's hand against wet flesh were beyond obscene. And then Sherlock was sliding down John's body, planting soft kisses as he went- kisses that might have been even more of a turn on than getting jerked off. When Sherlock kissed John's inner thigh, John's fingers immediately tangled themselves into Sherlock's hair.

"You're a bloody tease," John hissed as Sherlock kissed his other thigh.

Sherlock's response was to nuzzle his face against John's cock, lips slightly brushing against the base and John spasmed beneath him.

"Fuck," John growled under his breath, and then Sherlock's mouth was on him, lips pursed around his tip before sliding down John's length slowly, obscenely, erotically. Like Sherlock was John's personal pornstar. John gripped at the back of Sherlock's head tightly as if silently saying "don't you fucking dare lift your mouth off my cock."

The message fully understood, Sherlock sank down onto John, swallowing his essence whole and only coming back up when the need to breathe outweighed the pleasure.

There was nothing better than watching Sherlock Holmes bob his head up and down between John's legs. John kept his eyes on the scene played out before him and several times, Sherlock would lift his head to catch John's gaze, his lips still on John's cock, and John would shudder in complete pleasure. It was just ridiculously sexy, those cold and calculating eyes staring into John's own.

John could feel his legs begin to twitch. Feeling himself slowly succumb to sweet and utter bliss, he let out another hearty groan and threw his head backwards.

Feeling John grow close to an impending orgasm, Sherlock released the cock from his mouth with the most lewd sound John had ever heard.

John let out a struggled whine at the loss of heat around his groin, but he immediately shut up about it once Sherlock started to slither back up John's body, hastily kissing John again. John could taste himself on Sherlock's tongue, which strangely enough only made him all the more lascivious. He moaned into the kiss, grasping at Sherlock's dark curls as if afraid that if he'd let go Sherlock would leave again.

When they broke off, Sherlock leaned his forehead against John's, inhaling each time John exhaled, their breaths in a beautifully choreographed dance. "What…" Sherlock started, completely out of breath. "What do you want?"

John, with his hands slowly sliding down Sherlock's naked back and dipping into the waistband of Sherlock's trousers, grinned devilishly. When he squeezed at Sherlock's arse, the violinist practically jumped out of his own skin. "I want you to fuck me. Hard and raw."

John's voice sent shivers straight to Sherlock's cock. "Yes sir," he agreed.

And he did.

* * *

It was perhaps the post-coital aspects of their lives that John loved best. Laying on his side, completely naked, tracing indistinct patterns onto Sherlock's equally naked back as the genius nonchalantly polished his violin.

Once complete, Sherlock tucked the instrument underneath his chin.

"Play what you played in Vienna," John commanded, wrapping both his arms around Sherlock's seemingly fragile torso.

"Dull," Sherlock objected.

"Don't say that," John responded. "I want to hear it. Live, and not through a television screen."

And because Sherlock loved him, he obliged, and then the entire flat echoed with the sound of Dvorák.

It was peaceful. Quiet. John can't even remember a time when Sherlock had left, it seemed like he had been here all along. And perhaps John found himself nodding off to sleep again, eyes closed as he listened to Sherlock's sweet melody.

"You're not the only one who's been successfully lately," John spoke up suddenly.

"Oh?"

"Of course not. I've been busy myself, you know," John pointed out. "In fact, I should dare say they've bumped me up to first clarinet."

Immediately, the music came to a screeching halt. John smirked at Sherlock's back.

Sherlock slowly craned his neck around to stare at John, completely bewildered. "You what?"

"You heard me," John said, nuzzling his face into the small of his lover's back.

Instantly, Sherlock spun around, practically tossing his violin off the bed to tackle John into the sheets. "Oh John," he cried out, planting a great big kiss onto John's lips. "John, my beautiful John, I knew it! Of course you're first clarinet!"

And John laughed and drew Sherlock into a tight hug. "I hope, for your sake, that wasn't your violin that just crashed onto the floor."

"You can shut up now," Sherlock hissed into John's ear.

"Make me," John commanded.

Sherlock did.

* * *

**You guys are great and I love you all okay bye**


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